Chapter 2 - The Mask SlipsThe tension in the hallway was thick enough to choke on. My mother took a small step back, her sharp eyes scanning my face as if trying to read a blueprint she had suddenly lost the key to.
"Who was that on the phone, Daniel?" she demanded, attempting to maintain her imperious tone. "If you think you're calling some legal aid charity, save your breath. Ryan’s attorney signed off on every single document. It’s ironclad."
"Ironclad," Ryan echoed, though his voice lacked its previous swagger. He shifted his weight, his eyes darting to my duffel bag. "Look, man, we did what was best for the family estate. You were gone. The market was shifting. Emily was losing her mind out here alone."
I didn't answer them. Instead, I walked back into the bedroom, unzipped my tactical duffel, and pulled out a clean, warm fleece pullover. I gently helped Emily sit up. Every movement caused her to wince, but she didn't pull away from me.
"Can you walk, Em?" I whispered, my thumb brushing a dark bruise near her temple.
"I... I think so," she murmured. "My legs are just so weak. They only brought me food once every two days, Daniel. Your mother said a slim woman was a obedient woman."
A cold, dark fury coiled tightly around my spine, but I kept my face utterly passive. In the military, panic and rage were useless emotions; only execution mattered.
"They're not touching you ever again," I said.
I lifted her carefully into my arms. She felt terrifyingly light, like a bundle of dry sticks. Her head rested against my collarbone, her small hands clutching the fabric of my uniform shirt as if terrified she was dreaming.
As I carried her out of the bedroom, my mother stepped directly into my path, her hand raised.
"Where do you think you're taking her? This is Ryan's house now. You don't get to just walk out with property—"
"Touch me," I said.
It wasn't a shout. It was spoken in a low, gravelly tone that carried the weight of twelve years in combat zones.
Eleanor froze. Her hand hovered in the air, her face draining of color as she caught the unblinking, dead look in my eyes. She had seen that look once before—ten years ago, when my father died and his shady business partners tried to push us out of our home. I had handled them then, too. She had forgotten. Greed has a funny way of giving people amnesia.
"Out of my way, Mom," I said smoothly.
She scrambled backward, almost tripping over her own high heels. Ryan pressed himself against the drywall, suddenly very interested in the floorboards.
I carried Emily down the curved oak staircase of the estate—the estate my father had built with his own sweat, the estate I had refinanced and secured under a private corporate trust four years ago.
Outside, the cold autumn air hit us. Parked in the driveway was my black F-250, along with Ryan's newly purchased European sports car—paid for, no doubt, with the funds he thought he had drained from my personal checking account.
I unlocked the passenger side of a black SUV that pulled up to the curb precisely on cue. Sitting in the driver's seat was Sam, a former Master Sergeant from my team who now ran a high-end private security firm in the city.
"Major," Sam said, nodding respectfully. His eyes flicked to Emily, and a harsh, metallic dangerousness entered his gaze. "Ma'am. Good to see you."
"Sam," I said, setting Emily into the heated leather seat and buckling her in. "Take her to Saint Jude's Private Hospital. Dr. Vance is waiting. Full forensic sweep, full medical evaluation, and put two of our guys on her door. Nobody gets in. Not family, not press, nobody."
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"Consider it done," Sam said, locking the doors. "What about you?"
"I have a meeting at the bank," I replied, looking up at the grand manor house as the front door flew open and Ryan came stomping out onto the porch. "It's time to close some accounts."
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