Chapter 2 - The Stolen Crest
The silence stretched so thin that the slow, rhythmic dripping of red wine onto the Persian carpet sounded like footsteps.
Julian was the one holding the compact semi-automatic pistol, his dark navy jacket hanging open, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. ""Step away from the table, Ethan,"" Julian ordered, his hands trembling so violently that the gun barrel wavered between Ethan's chest and the child curled behind his legs. ""You weren't supposed to find that ledger until after the sunrise board meeting. You weren't supposed to be in this city at all.""
Victoria let out a breathless, triumphant laugh, recovering her venom in an instant. ""Did you truly think you could corner me in my own dining room, Ethan? Julian’s family controls half the security perimeter outside. You walked into this estate without your guards. You are alone.""
Ethan did not raise his hands. He did not even blink. Instead, he stepped deliberately to the right, fully obscuring Lily from the line of fire. His gaze remained pinned on Julian’s shaking fingers.
""Julian,"" Ethan spoke with chilling serenity. ""You entered this family through marriage contracts and unpaid gambling debts. Do you truly believe Victoria will let you survive the night once you pull that trigger? You become the sole murderer. She becomes the tragic widow and sole executrix.""
Julian’s eyes flickered with doubt. ""Shut up! She promised me the overseas accounts!""
""There are no overseas accounts,"" Ethan countered, taking a single, slow step toward the muzzle. The air between them turned electric. ""I froze them three hours ago in Zurich. Every franc you thought was waiting for you in Geneva has been re-routed to a trust fund under Lily’s name.""
Victoria lunged toward the table, her fingernails clawing at the open pages of the ledger. ""He’s lying! Shoot him, Julian! Shoot him now or we both burn in federal prison!""
Lily tugged at the hem of Ethan’s burgundy coat. Her tiny voice, cracked and fragile, sliced through the panic: ""Uncle Ethan... the man in the car had that same watch.""
Ethan’s gaze snapped from the gun to Julian’s wrist. Glinting under the chandelier was a rare, numbered platinum chronograph with a scratched emerald bezel—the exact timepiece stolen from Ethan’s brother the night of his fatal car crash.
A terrifying realization settled over Ethan’s features. This was never just about an inheritance dispute; this was an execution cover-up.
""It was you,"" Ethan whispered, the calm dropping away, replaced by pure, predatory fury.
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Julian panicked and pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the dining room’s opulence, but before the bullet struck, Ethan surged forward like a phantom, slamming Julian against the golden sideboard in an explosion of porcelain and glass.
In the sudden chaos, the heavy oak doors banged open, and a swarm of black-clad tactical figures flooded the hall—not Ethan’s men, and not Julian’s.
