10. Twenty Minutes
Chapter ten
Twenty Minutes
The private elevator hummed. It was a vibrationless ascent from the concrete depths of the underground garage.
I stood near the back wall and kept one hand braced against the polished steel handrail.
It helped steady my shifting center of gravity.
Beside me, the crisp, starchy scent of freshly dry-cleaned wool drifted from the driver’s suit.
Marcus stood at parade rest facing the doors. He kept his posture rigid and his eyes focused forward. I rubbed the curve of my stomach through the fabric of my coat, retreating into my own thoughts.
My obstetrician had officially recommended thirty minutes of light afternoon walking to help with third-trimester swelling.
It provided an unassailable alibi. Tobias and Lavinia had practically shoved me out the front door, eager to perform the role of a supportive family for the household staff.
They assumed I was pacing the neighborhood sidewalks.
They had no idea I was using the medical excuse to finalize the exact parameters of my own attempted murder.
“We’re here, ma’am,” Marcus said as the cab came to a complete stop. “Watch your step on the threshold.”
The elevator chimed. Marcus stepped forward and tapped a black plastic keycard against the wall-mounted security scanner. A green indicator light flashed. The steel doors slid open to reveal Bastien’s sprawling penthouse.
Blinding winter sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The intense glare reflected off the polished hardwood, casting bright geometric shapes across the room.
The wide, open layout was a massive relief after the oppressive, shadowed halls of the Stanton estate.
I stepped out of the confined cab and into the room.
The air in the penthouse lacked the suffocating paranoia of my own house.
Here, I didn’t have to monitor my every breath or police my own facial expressions.
Marcus stopped at the edge of the foyer. “The perimeter is secure, Mrs. Stanton. The boss is waiting for you inside. I will be right out here if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” I said. “I appreciate the ride.”
He offered a polite nod. He turned and stepped back into the private cab, letting the steel doors slide shut behind him.
Left alone in the entryway, I started unfastening the large plastic buttons of my winter maternity coat.
My fingers were stiff from the outside chill.
The thick wool buttonholes resisted the effort, forcing me to pause and work each button through the stubborn fabric one at a time.
Stripping away the heavy coat felt like stepping out of my ‘helpless victim’ disguise.
I finally freed it and draped the garment over the back of a nearby armchair.
Across the room, Bastien stood beside the massive white marble kitchen island. Dr. Pascal Beaumont waited next to him. The older man maintained a practiced, professional distance, his hands resting atop the black leather medical bag on the counter.
Bastien tracked my progress across the hardwood. “Your doctor bought the ‘afternoon walk’ excuse?”
“He recommended it himself,” I replied. “I just followed orders.”
Bastien gave a tight nod. The stiff set of his jaw made it clear he was already dreading the trap. “Have a seat at the island, Cecilia. Beaumont has all the information for us.”
I pulled out one of the padded leather stools and sat down across from the older man.
I recognized him instantly—he was the underground doctor who had saved my life with the EpiPen in the damp warehouse.
I leaned forward, ready to confirm the final details.
The white marble counter was freezing. The chill seeped into my bare forearms.
Dr. Beaumont grasped the heavy brass zipper of the black leather bag resting on the counter. The metal track offered a harsh rasp in the quiet penthouse as he pulled it open.
He reached carefully into the padded interior of the bag. He extracted a syringe, the needle capped in orange plastic, and set it on the marble between us. The clear liquid inside the barrel caught the bright glare of the room.
Staring at the medication brought back the damp concrete of the safehouse.
If I was wrong about my husband’s greed, if the timing of the trap failed, I would leave my child motherless.
I pressed my forearms harder against the stone surface, forcing the slight tremor out of my wrists. I needed facts, not fear.
Dr. Beaumont adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Bastien has already explained exactly what you have in mind for your trap. Mrs. Stanton, as a medical practitioner, I really must protest. The risks you are exposing yourself to—”
“I don’t need a rundown of the symptoms, Doctor,” I said, cutting him off before he could build momentum. “I know my own body.”
He paused, his hand hovering near the syringe. “The shock to your system during the third trimester—”
“I know,” I interrupted again, keeping my voice flat. “I’ve lived with this allergy my whole life. I know exactly how it feels when my throat starts to close. I don’t need a lecture on the medical risks.”
Dr. Beaumont exchanged a brief, tight glance with him. Bastien remained standing near the edge of the island, radiating silent disapproval. He hated the plan, but he wasn’t going to stop me from asking questions.
“I need the timeline,” I said, forcing Beaumont to look back at me. “How long do I have to get Tobias and Lavinia talking?”
Dr. Beaumont let out a slow, measured breath, dropping the clinical detachment. He tapped a single finger against the plastic barrel of the syringe.
“Once you ingest the allergen, you will have roughly twenty minutes of escalating airway constriction while you are still conscious enough to draw them out. But the airway isn’t the primary danger here.”
Bastien shifted his stance, moving away from the edge of the island.
The thick rubber soles of his boots scraped against the polished hardwood.
The noise echoed through the vast living room, cutting through the low hum of the air conditioning.
He took two steps toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, then turned right back around to face us.
He pointed a finger at the clear liquid catching the sunlight inside the barrel. “That piece of plastic means nothing if we miss the window,” Bastien said. “If we miscalculate the timing, she dies before that medication even reaches her bloodstream.”
I gripped the edge of the freezing stone counter. The sharp chill settled my racing pulse. A dry, metallic taste coated the back of my tongue. I swallowed against it, focusing on the glare reflecting off the marble.
He hates this. Bastien solved problems with his own two hands, and I was asking him to stand behind a door and listen to me choke.
Dr. Beaumont remained entirely unbothered by Bastien’s looming presence. Instead, the older man reached out and pointed at the clear barrel.
“The medication is clinical grade, Bastien,” Beaumont replied. “It will work, provided we follow the physiological markers.”
Bastien closed the distance again. He planted both hands flat on the edge of the island, leaning his weight over the marble. He looked ready to scrap the plan right there.
“I am not leaving this to a guessing game,” Bastien warned. “What is the exact signal to abort?”
Beaumont wasn’t going to soften the reality. He pulled his hand back from the counter and folded his arms across his chest. He looked away from Bastien and locked his gaze on me.
“The collapse,” the doctor stated. “When she loses consciousness, it means her blood pressure has crashed.”
I stared at the orange cap of the needle. The trap was no longer just an idea discussed in a garden. It was real, and there was no safety net once my knees gave out.
“If you let her lie there in profound shock, blood will stop circulating to her muscles,” Beaumont continued.
“If that happens, this intramuscular shot won’t absorb fast enough to save her, and she will require an IV push and a ventilator.
We go in the exact second she hits the floor. We do not wait.”
Dr. Beaumont retrieved the capped syringe from the marble surface. He returned it to the padded interior of his black leather bag, slotting the plastic barrel into a molded groove. He pulled the zipper shut, sealing the bag with a sharp tug.
“I will leave you to finalize the perimeter logistics,” Beaumont said. He offered a curt nod to Bastien, picked up the bag by its leather handles, and turned away from the kitchen island.
I watched the doctor walk across the wide room. The steel doors slid shut behind him. The vast quiet of the penthouse rushed in, amplifying the faint hum of the air vents.
I uncurled my stiff fingers from the edge of the stone counter. My palms were cold on the marble. I let them rest flat over the fabric of my maternity pants, rubbing my thumbs against my knees.
Bastien remained standing near the island. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing the skin before dragging his fingers through his hair. He looked entirely unlike the dangerous, composed man who navigated the Stanton estate.
“He’s right about the shock timeline,” Bastien muttered. He stared at the empty space near the doorway. “A few minutes too long on that floor, and the epinephrine becomes useless. We have zero margin for error.”
He released a ragged, exhausted breath. The sound carried across the wide room. I studied the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. Right now, he didn’t look like the man who ran the city’s underground. He was just a man facing a threat he couldn’t solve with a weapon.
“I hate this,” Bastien said. His voice lacked its usual commanding edge. “I hate that I have to stand behind a door and listen to you choke just to get him on tape.”
I shifted my weight on the padded stool. The immense, sprawling city skyline stretched out behind him through the glass. I understood his frustration. He was accustomed to protecting his people, and my plan forced him to stay hidden and do nothing.
“We set the cameras,” I said. “We control the environment. It’s a calculated risk, Bastien. It’s the only way to get the proof we need to end this.”
He dropped his hand to his side and turned to fix his dark eyes on my face.
“A calculated risk is still a risk,” Bastien said. He took a single step closer to the stool. “If something goes wrong, I’m the one who has to live with it. I’m the one who will lose you.”
Bastien pushed himself off the edge of the marble island.
He crossed the short span of hardwood with deliberate strides.
He stopped in front of my padded stool. His towering frame blocked the blinding glare of the afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
He looked down at my bare arms resting against the freezing stone.
“You’re shivering,” he said.
“It is just the marble,” I replied.
I opened my mouth to brush off his worry, to tell him to focus on the timeline.
I never got the words out. He lifted his right hand and cupped the side of my face.
The dry heat of his calloused palm cut right through the chill of the room.
He bowed his head and pressed a kiss to my temple.
His lips lingered against my skin. The faint scent of sandalwood drifted from the collar of his suit, warm and undeniably familiar.
The silence of the room was overtaken by the steady rhythm of his breathing. He issued lethal orders for a living, but he touched me like I was made of glass.
Tobias only ever touched me when there was an audience to perform for. His smooth, uncalloused hands always felt like a cage. Bastien touched me like he just needed to know I was safe.
I lifted my arm from the counter and placed my fingers over the back of his hand, tracing the raised ridges of his knuckles. I took comfort in the gesture without asking for anything else.
Bastien pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. His dark eyes were fiercely protective. He let out a breath, the physical tension finally bleeding out of him as he lowered his guard.
“I’ll trust your plan, Cecilia,” Bastien whispered. “I’ll wait behind the door. But understand this.”
He paused, his thumb brushing a slow arc across my cheekbone.
“If he puts his hands on you while you’re down, the plan stops,” he continued, his voice dropping to a lethal rumble. “I’m breaking his neck.”
I did not flinch at the threat. The violent promise settled my remaining fears. Tobias fought his battles with lawyers and manipulation. Bastien just stood directly between me and the danger.
“Tobias is a coward,” I replied. “He won’t touch me. He’ll just stand there and watch.”
“I won’t let him win,” Bastien said. “I promise you.”
I sat still on the padded stool, grounded by the rough warmth of his palm against my cheek, ready to spring the trap.