Chapter Twelve
~ Julian ~
I reached behind my wheelchair and pulled Connor down beside me as the study door swung open. My hand gripped the gun with practiced familiarity, the weight of it a cold comfort against the chaos unfolding in my home.
The red emergency lighting cast bloody shadows across the room, transforming my sanctuary into something alien and dangerous.
The silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway, a darker shape against the crimson glow. I held my breath, my finger hovering near the trigger, every muscle tensed for what might come next.
Connor's body was warm against mine, his breathing shallow but controlled. I felt a surge of pride mingled with my fear—just days ago, he'd been a stranger in my hotel room, and now he was facing armed intruders with remarkable composure.
The man swept a tactical flashlight across the study, the beam slicing through the darkness, stopping just inches from where we were concealed in the corner.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but years of boardroom battles had taught me to keep my exterior calm even when my insides were chaos. I waited, calculating trajectories, angles, probabilities—the mathematics of survival.
The beam moved on. The man retreated, muttering something into what I assumed was a communication device. Once his footsteps faded, I turned to Connor, my lips nearly touching his ear.
"Stay behind me," I whispered, so softly it was barely audible over our synchronized breathing. "We need to move. Now."
I maneuvered my wheelchair with practiced silence, a skill honed through years of midnight work sessions when sleep eluded me. The rubber wheels made no sound on the plush carpet as I guided us toward the door, pausing to listen for movement in the hallway beyond.
Connor's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, a point of warmth in the chilled air of the penthouse. I reached up, my fingers briefly covering his—a gesture that conveyed more than words could have in that moment.
Then I refocused, all business, all strategy.
The hallway stretched before us, bathed in that same eerie red glow. I could hear muffled sounds from different parts of the penthouse—drawers opening, furniture being moved, methodical searching. Harris's men weren't just looking for us; they were hunting for something specific.
"Where are we going?" Connor breathed, his voice barely a whisper against my ear.
"Panic room," I murmured. "Master bedroom. Secret entrance."
We moved with agonizing slowness, each foot of progress taking what felt like hours. I was acutely aware of how vulnerable we were—me in my wheelchair, unable to run; Connor refusing to leave my side despite the danger.
The irony wasn't lost on me. For years after my accident, I'd insisted I needed no one, could handle everything alone. Now, my survival—our survival—depended on perfect cooperation.
A noise from the living room made us freeze.
Voices, low but urgent, and then footsteps heading in our direction.
I gestured toward an alcove, and Connor immediately understood, helping maneuver my chair into the small space.
We pressed ourselves against the wall, barely daring to breathe as two men walked past, their flashlight beams sweeping methodically across the hallway.
"Harris wants the data and both of them alive," one man murmured to the other. "For now."
Those last two words sent ice through my veins. For now. A temporary reprieve, nothing more.
Once they passed, we continued our slow progress toward the master bedroom. The door was partially open, a thin sliver of that red emergency light spilling out into the hallway.
I paused, listening for any sound from within, then nodded to Connor. He slipped past me, pushing the door open wider, checking the space before motioning me forward.
The master bedroom was empty, but evidence of the search was everywhere—drawers pulled open, clothes strewn across the floor, even the mattress askew as if they'd checked underneath it. They were thorough, professional. Not hired thugs, but trained operatives.
I wheeled directly to the bookshelf that concealed the panic room entrance, my fingers finding the biometric scanner hidden beneath the third book from the left. I pressed my palm against it, waiting for the soft hum of recognition, for the click of locks disengaging.
Nothing.
I tried again, my heart rate accelerating with each passing second.
Still nothing.
"It won't open without power," Connor hissed, his eyes darting nervously toward the bedroom door.
"Backup generator should kick in any second," I replied, forcing my voice to remain calm despite the mounting tension. "The security system runs on an independent circuit."
As if summoned by my words, a low hum vibrated through the walls. The emergency lights flickered, then brightened slightly. The scanner beneath my hand warmed, and a soft beep—too loud in the tense silence—signaled recognition.
The bookshelf slid silently aside, revealing the steel door of my panic room. I entered a separate code on the keypad beside it, and with a soft pneumatic hiss, the door opened.
"Inside. Quickly," I urged, wheeling myself in after Connor.
The panic room was small but efficiently designed to accommodate my wheelchair—another modification made after my accident. The door sealed behind us with reassuring finality, multiple locks engaging automatically.
The room hummed to life around us, monitors flickering on to display feeds from cameras throughout the penthouse.
I watched as Harris's men systematically searched my home, four of them that I could see, moving with military precision. On one screen, a man was in my study, methodically examining my computer with the detached focus of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for.
"Wait," Connor's voice was tight with shock. "I know him."
I followed his gaze to another monitor, where a fifth man had just entered the frame. Even in the grainy security footage, I recognized the entitled swagger, the expensive clothes that sat awkwardly on his frame—as if he were a child playing dress-up in his father's closet.
Bradley Matthews.
"My family sold me out again," Connor murmured, his voice hollow with a pain that transcended fear. "My own brother is helping them hunt me."
I reached for his hand, our fingers intertwining in the dim blue glow of the monitors. The touch was both comfort and promise—a silent vow that this betrayal, like the others, would not break him.
Not while I was here.
"Family isn't always blood," I said softly, the words more revealing than I'd intended. In the short time I'd known him, Connor had become more important to me than I cared to admit, even to myself. More than a responsibility, more than a husband of convenience.
Something I wasn't ready to name.
His eyes met mine, wide with a vulnerability that made my chest ache. For a moment, everything else faded—the danger, the men hunting us, the betrayal. There was only Connor, looking at me like I was something worth trusting, worth believing in.
Then violent pounding shook the panic room door, the moment shattering like glass. We both jerked our attention to the monitors, watching as two men examined the bookshelf, their faces twisted with frustrated anger as they realized we'd escaped their net.
For now.
But the renewed assault on the door told me they weren't giving up easily. And if they couldn't get to us, they'd take everything else they could.
I moved toward the communication panel embedded in the wall, keeping my voice deadly calm as I pressed the emergency contact button. The pounding on the door continued, vibrating through the small space like a physical threat.
"Michael, we have uninvited guests," I said, the understatement almost absurd given the circumstances. Connor stood beside me, his eyes fixed on the monitors showing men ransacking my home.
There was a moment of static, then Michael's steady voice came through the speaker. "Understood, sir. Extraction team is three minutes out."
Three minutes. In business, three minutes was nothing—barely enough time to review a single page of a contract. In this situation, it might as well have been three hours.
I reached out, drawing Connor closer to my wheelchair, a protective gesture that was becoming instinctive.
"Stay away from the door," I instructed, even though the reinforced steel was designed to withstand far more than human fists. "They can't get in. This room was built to survive a direct hit."
Connor nodded, but his attention had returned to the monitors. I followed his gaze to the screen showing my office, where his brother was methodically going through my desk drawers.
Brad's movements weren't random; he knew exactly what he was looking for. He pulled files from the bottom drawer—the ones containing my research on Harris Pharmaceuticals' clinical trials, the evidence of fraud and human experimentation.
"Those bastards," I muttered, watching as Brad pocketed several USB drives from my desk.
"They're not just after me," Connor said, his voice tight with realization. "They want your research on Harris's pharmaceutical fraud."
My jaw clenched as I watched another man connect a device to my computer, fingers flying across the keyboard as he began downloading data. It wasn't just theft; it was targeted corporate espionage, aimed at the heart of the case I was building against Harris.
"Look," Connor pointed at another screen, where Brad was speaking into a phone, his expression smug. "He's reporting back to someone."
I didn't need to hear the conversation to know who was on the other end. Harris was getting desperate. The evidence I'd shown the board was damaging, but it was only a fraction of what I'd collected.
With the full data, Harris could identify what I knew, what I could prove, and—most importantly—what witnesses might still exist.
"Will they get everything?" Connor asked, his hand resting on my shoulder.