Six men in impeccably tailored, dark charcoal suits flooded into the grand hall. They moved with a silent, terrifying, militaristic precision. Two armed guards immediately flanked the shattered entrance, securing the perimeter. Following closely behind the security detail were three elite private trauma paramedics carrying heavy medical jump bags.
They rushed past a paralyzed, trembling Julian and dropped to their knees beside me. They treated my husband as if he were an invisible, irrelevant piece of furniture.
“Ms. Sterling,” the lead medic said, his voice laced with profound deference and urgent care. “Let’s get you off the floor, ma’am.”
They gently, expertly lifted me from the bloody marble, supporting my weight, and guided me into the massive, tufted leather wingback chair near the fireplace. I refused the stretcher. I sat perfectly still, my jaw clenched against the stinging pain of the antiseptic they applied to my back, and kept my eyes locked dead onto Julian.
Julian had collapsed onto his knees. He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving as he stared at the men swarming his house.
A tall, distinguished man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses walked through the front doors. He carried a sleek, titanium briefcase. He exuded an aura of absolute, bureaucratic lethality. This was Winston Hayes, Chief Legal Counsel for the Sterling International Trust.
He walked past Chloe, who was backed against the wet bar, clutching her face in sheer terror. Winston stopped directly in front of Julian, looking down at the bloody contract resting on the marble floor.
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