Chapter 6 - Flames in the Archive"Burn them?" Adrian’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper that seemed to rattle the very books on the shelves.
"Yes, sir!" Henderson panted, clutching his chest. "She managed to bypass the electronic keypad using an override code her father gave her. I caught her on the security monitors. She’s pouring industrial solvent over the filing cabinets as we speak!"
Adrian didn't hesitate for a single second. He handed the Vance Capital evidence folder directly to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"Hold this, Sophie. Do not let it out of your sight," he ordered.
"Mr. Moretti, let me come with you," I said, stepping forward. "I know the service corridors in the East Wing better than anyone. I clean them every morning."
Adrian looked at me, hesitation flickering across his features for a fraction of a second before he nodded sharply. "Stay behind me. If she has a weapon, run."
We sprinted out of the library, our footsteps pounding against the hardwood floors of the grand estate. The heavy silence of the night was suddenly broken by the faint, acrid smell of chemical fumes wafting up from the lower levels.
Smoke.
As we descended the narrow spiral staircase leading down to the East Wing archive room, the smell grew sharper, biting at the back of my throat. The heavy fire-door to the basement archive was blown wide open, its electronic keypad sparking and smoking from a forced override.
Inside, the room was chaotic. Metal filing cabinets were pulled open, their contents spilled across the floor in a sea of white paper. And standing in the center of it all, holding a plastic canister of industrial floor stripper and a cheap plastic lighter, was Vivian Ashford.
Her expensive emerald gown was stained with soot and solvent. Her immaculate blonde hair had come undone, falling in wild strands around her flushed, frantic face.
"Vivian!" Adrian’s voice boomed through the basement, echoing off the concrete walls like thunder.
Vivian jumped, spinning around. The plastic lighter slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering against the concrete floor just inches away from a puddle of highly flammable solvent.
"Adrian!" she shrieked, a manic, hysterical laugh escaping her lips. "Don't come any closer! Don't you dare take another step!"
"Put the canister down, Vivian," Adrian said, advancing slowly, his movements controlled, lethal, and completely unstoppable. "It's over. I have the bank records. I have your father's signed contracts with Vance Capital. The game is finished."
"No! It's not finished!" Vivian screamed, tears of pure rage streaming down her soot-stained cheeks. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you own Chicago! My father built this city's real estate foundation long before your father crawled out of the docks! You were just supposed to sign the merger papers next month, and everything would have belonged to us!"
"You were going to rob me, ruin my family's legacy, and throw Miss Evie out like trash," Adrian said, closing the distance until he was only ten feet away from her.
"She deserved it!" Vivian sobbed, raising the plastic canister. "That stupid, meddling old woman wouldn't stop poking her nose into things that didn't concern her! And you—you cared more about your housekeeper than about your own fiancée!"
"She raised me," Adrian said, his voice cold as a glacier. "You were just a corporate parasite wearing a pretty dress."
With a sudden, violent sob, Vivian flicked the lighter.
A tongue of orange flame caught the puddle of solvent on the floor, erupting in a sudden, blinding wall of fire that raced toward the wooden filing cabinets.
"Adrian, look out!" I screamed, lunging forward without thinking.
Before the fire could catch the main stack of historical documents, Adrian moved with terrifying speed. He lunged past Vivian, grabbing a heavy wool canvas tarp off the maintenance rack and slamming it down directly over the flames, smothering the fire before it could reach the historic charters.
Vivian shrieked in panic, turning to run for the exit.
But as she reached the doorway, two burly security guards blocked her path, grabbing her arms and pinning her wrists behind her back with effortless precision.
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Adrian stood up slowly from the charred floor, dusting soot off his tailored trousers. He looked at Vivian—not with anger, but with total, crushing indifference.
"Call the police, Henderson," Adrian ordered quietly, stepping out of the smoke-filled archive room. "Tell the Chief of Police to send a paddy wagon for Miss Ashford. And make a second call to Julian Ashford's residence. Let him know his daughter has just earned herself a front-row seat in federal prison."
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