CHAPTER 27
AUDREY
The safe house smells like old brick and cold metal.
It is massive, completely open-concept, with high ceilings and heavy steel beams that look like they could withstand a minor earthquake. There are no floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake here. The windows are narrow, frosted, and reinforced with security wire.
It doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a bunker.
But as Malcolm steps back, his hands sliding from my waist to grip my forearms, the cold, industrial space starts to feel infinitely warmer than the pristine luxury of the penthouse.
"I need to make a call," he says, his voice dropping back to the calm, authoritative register that means he is currently calculating three different tactical maneuvers in his head. "Grant is sweeping the perimeter. We are not leaving this building until the files are transferred."
"Transferred to who?" I ask, stepping out of his grip to pull my heavy coat off.
"The federal prosecutor’s office." Malcolm takes his phone out of his pocket. "And David at the Tribune."
I drop my coat onto the worn leather sofa. "You’re going to give the files to the press before the SEC has a chance to process them?"
"If I only give them to the SEC, Preston will use his political connections to stall the investigation.
He will bury the evidence in procedural red tape for years.
" Malcolm walks toward a heavy metal desk sitting in the corner of the loft.
"If I give them to David, the story breaks by noon. The board will panic. The shareholders will demand Preston’s immediate resignation.
The SEC will be forced to act publicly."
It is a flawless, brutal strategy. He isn't just going to arrest his father; he is going to publicly execute his reputation.
"Do you need the drive?" I reach into the front pocket of my jeans, my fingers brushing against the small piece of black plastic.
"Keep it," Malcolm says, not looking up from his phone. "I have a secure server set up in this loft. I can transfer the data directly from the drive, but I want you to be the one who hands it to me when the time comes."
I frown, walking over to the desk. "Why?"
He finishes typing a message and sets the phone down on the metal surface. He looks up at me.
"Because you earned it," he says quietly. "Simon stole your company. Preston tried to erase your family. You are the one who broke Simon this morning. You hold the execution order, Audrey. You get to decide when we pull the lever."
A heavy, complicated knot forms in my throat.
He is giving me the agency. He could easily take the drive, plug it in, and handle the entire operation himself. He is the CEO. He is the tactician. But he is deliberately stepping back, ensuring that I am not just a passenger in this revenge plot.
I pull the drive out of my pocket and set it on the desk between us.
"We pull it now," I say.
Malcolm looks at the drive. He doesn't smile, but the dark, absolute pride in his eyes is unmistakable.
"Agreed," he murmurs.
He reaches under the desk, pulling out a sleek, heavy laptop. It doesn't look like a standard commercial model. It looks military-grade, encased in matte black metal. He opens it, his fingers flying across the keyboard to bypass a series of encrypted login screens.
"Vivian called me while you were in custody," I say, leaning my hip against the edge of the desk. "She said the media is camped outside the police precinct. They saw you leave. They know the charges were dropped."
"Preston will have seen the news by now." Malcolm plugs the USB drive into the side of the laptop. "He will know Simon recanted. He will assume Simon panicked and lied to the police to save himself."
"Will he suspect Simon talked to me?"
"Preston considers Simon a coward, but he does not consider him a traitor.
" A progress bar appears on the screen, illuminating Malcolm’s face in the dim loft.
"He will assume Simon cracked under the pressure of the media attention.
He will not realize you orchestrated the recantation until the files hit the Tribune. "
"And when they do?"
Malcolm stops typing. He looks at the screen, watching the files duplicate onto the secure server.
"When they do," he says, his voice completely flat, "Preston will realize he has nothing left to lose. He will stop trying to manipulate the board, and he will attempt a direct, physical retaliation."
A cold shiver runs down my spine. "He’ll send his contractors."
"He will send anyone he can buy." Malcolm turns his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Which is why we are not leaving this loft until the federal authorities have Preston in custody."
I nod slowly. The reality of the situation settles over me, heavy and suffocating. We are safe in this bunker, but we are effectively trapped here until the fallout clears.
The progress bar on the screen hits one hundred percent.
Malcolm unplugs the USB drive and hands it back to me. "The files are secured on the server. I am initiating the transfer to the prosecutor’s office now."
He hits a key. A small confirmation window pops up on the screen.
Transfer Complete.
It’s done. Ten years of corporate fraud, offshore accounts, and illegal zoning permits are currently sitting in the inbox of a federal prosecutor.
"Now for the Tribune," Malcolm murmurs, opening a secure email client.
He attaches the files, types a brief, cryptic message to David, and hits send.
He closes the laptop.
The silence in the loft returns, thick and absolute. The adrenaline that has been keeping me upright for the last twelve hours finally begins to recede, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache at the base of my skull.
I look at Malcolm. He is staring at the closed laptop, his hands resting flat on the metal desk.
He just destroyed his family. He just destroyed the company he spent his entire adult life building.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
He doesn't answer immediately. He traces the edge of the laptop with his thumb, his expression completely unreadable.
"When I was fourteen," Malcolm says, his voice low and distant, "Simon stole a car belonging to one of Preston’s business associates. He drove it into a ditch on the South Side. He panicked and ran."
I stay perfectly still, afraid that any movement will break the fragile vulnerability of the moment.
"Preston found out before the police did," Malcolm continues. "He didn't punish Simon. He woke me up, handed me a set of keys, and told me to go fix it. I spent four hours negotiating with a local gang to tow the car and wipe the security footage from a nearby liquor store."
He looks up at me.
"I have spent sixteen years cleaning up the wreckage," he says, the bitterness finally bleeding into his tone. "I built Vance Security to ensure that the wreckage never reached the holding company. I thought I was protecting the family."
"You were protecting them," I say gently.
"No." He shakes his head, a dark, self-deprecating smile touching his lips.
"I was enabling them. I was the reason Simon believed he could steal your company without consequence.
If I hadn't spent my life acting as their shield, Simon would have been in prison a decade ago, and you would still have your firm. "
The words hit me hard. He isn't just grieving the loss of his company; he is carrying the guilt of what his family did to me.
"Malcolm." I step closer to him, reaching out to cover his hand with mine. "Simon stole my company because he is a selfish, empty man. You didn't make him that way."
"I made it possible for him to survive that way."
"And now you are making it impossible." I squeeze his hand, forcing him to look at me. "You stopped him. You stopped Preston. You didn't have to do this, but you did."
He looks down at our hands. The vintage diamond catches the harsh overhead light of the loft.
He turns his hand over, tangling his fingers with mine. He pulls me gently toward him, stepping around the desk until we are standing toe-to-toe.
"I am entirely unemployed," he murmurs, the heavy emotional weight shifting into a dry, self-deprecating humor. "I am currently hiding in an off-the-grid warehouse, and my father is likely plotting my assassination."
"It’s a very impressive resume," I reply, a small, exhausted smile touching my lips.
"Are you absolutely certain you want to stay in this room?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
He exhales a slow, rough breath, resting his forehead against mine. The physical contact is grounding, a quiet anchor in the middle of the chaos.
We stand there for a long time, the silence of the safe house wrapping around us.
My stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing rumble.
I wince, pulling back slightly. "I’m sorry. I think the last thing I ate was the pizza you ordered yesterday morning."
Malcolm’s eyes open. The intense, brooding CEO vanishes, replaced by the man who meticulously planned my office logistics.
"There is a kitchen in the back," he says, gesturing toward the far end of the loft. "It is fully stocked. Grant ensures the safe houses are provisioned for extended stays."
"Does fully stocked mean actual food, or just military rations and bottled water?"
"There is pasta," he offers, a genuine, albeit faint, smile appearing.
"I can work with pasta."
I walk toward the back of the loft. The kitchen is utilitarian—stainless steel counters, an industrial stove, and a massive refrigerator. It lacks the sterile luxury of the penthouse, but it feels infinitely more functional.
I open the cabinets, finding a box of linguine and a jar of marinara sauce. It’s basic, but right now, it looks like a Michelin-star meal.
Malcolm walks into the kitchen a few minutes later. He has taken off the wrinkled suit jacket and the tie, leaving him in just the white dress shirt and trousers. He looks tired, but the rigid tension in his shoulders has loosened.
He leans against the counter, watching me boil water.
"You don't have to cook," he says. "I can order something."
"To an off-the-grid safe house?" I raise an eyebrow, dropping the pasta into the pot. "I don't think Uber Eats delivers to unmarked bunkers."
"Grant could pick something up."
"Grant is currently standing outside in the freezing cold making sure your father’s goons don't murder us. Let the man do his job." I grab a wooden spoon, stirring the pasta. "Besides, I like cooking. It gives my brain something to do that doesn't involve calculating prison sentences."
Malcolm doesn't argue. He watches me move around the small kitchen, his dark eyes tracking my every movement. It isn't the calculating, predatory stare from the hotel bar. It is something deeper. He is watching me like he is trying to memorize the exact way I hold the spoon.
I finish cooking the pasta, mixing it with the sauce, and divide it into two bowls. I hand one to Malcolm, grabbing two forks from the drawer.
We eat standing at the stainless steel counter.
It is the most mundane, ordinary thing we have done since we met. There are no cameras. There is no contract. There is no impending gala. It is just the two of us, eating cheap pasta in a warehouse, waiting for the world to end.
"It’s good," Malcolm says, setting his empty bowl down.
"It’s jarred sauce," I point out, taking a sip of water. "You’re just starving."
"I am," he admits.
He reaches across the counter, his hand wrapping around my waist. He pulls me toward him, stepping into my space. The sudden physical proximity makes my breath catch.
"Malcolm," I murmur, my hands resting flat against his chest.
"The files won't hit the news until noon tomorrow," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. "Preston won't make a move until he realizes he is exposed."
"Okay."
"Which means we have twelve hours." He slides his hand up my back, his fingers tangling in the loose waves of my hair. "Twelve hours where the rest of the world does not exist."
He kisses me.
It is slow, deliberate, and completely consuming. I lean into him, my hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. The taste of the pasta and the sharp bite of his coffee from earlier mix together.
He lifts me effortlessly, setting me on the edge of the stainless steel counter. He steps between my legs, his body pressing flush against mine. The cold metal of the counter contrasts sharply with the absolute heat radiating from him.
"Twelve hours," I whisper against his mouth, my hands sliding down to unbutton his shirt.
"Twelve hours," he confirms.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under the hem of my oversized sweater. The war is waiting for us tomorrow. Preston is waiting. The media is waiting.
But tonight, in the dark, quiet isolation of the safe house, I am exactly where I belong.