CHAPTER 26
MALCOLM
The metal chair is bolted to the concrete floor.
I have been sitting in it for four hours.
The room smells like stale coffee, cheap floor wax, and the nervous sweat of the three different detectives who have walked in and out of the door since I arrived.
They took my tie, my belt, and my shoelaces, standard protocol to prevent a suspect from harming themselves in custody.
They left the handcuffs on.
I look at the heavy steel cuffs securing my wrists to the metal ring welded to the table. The edges are biting into my skin, leaving raw, red marks against my pulse points.
I don't feel the pain. I am focused entirely on the clock mounted on the wall above the two-way mirror.
6:14 AM.
The door opens.
Detective Miller walks in. He is the same man who arrested me in the penthouse. He looks worse now than he did then. His cheap suit is wrinkled, and he is holding a thick file folder that he drops onto the metal table with an aggressive, theatrical slap.
My defense attorney, a man named Sterling who charges a thousand dollars an hour to look perpetually bored, walks in right behind him. Sterling sits down in the chair next to me, opening his leather briefcase.
"Mr. Vance," Detective Miller says, pulling out the chair opposite me. He sits down heavily, leaning forward. "It’s been a long night. We’ve processed the initial reports from the fire investigators at the estate."
I don't say anything. I just look at him.
"The fire started in the east wing," Miller continues, opening the file. "Accelerant was used. It was a professional job. The security cameras covering that specific corridor were disabled exactly twelve minutes before the first alarm triggered."
"My client has already stated he was in the main ballroom during the entirety of the event," Sterling interjects smoothly, not looking up from his legal pad.
"And prior to that, he was in a meeting in the library with the board of directors.
You have fifty witnesses who can corroborate his presence. "
"We have a witness who says he saw Mr. Vance leave the library and head toward the east wing," Miller counters, looking directly at me.
"Let me guess," I say, my voice completely flat. "The witness is on the payroll of Vance Security."
Miller’s jaw tightens. "The witness is a private contractor hired for the event."
"He is a contractor hired by my father," I correct him. "Preston paid him to lie. Just as he paid you to fast-track this arrest warrant without probable cause."
"Malcolm," Sterling warns quietly, touching my arm.
I ignore him. I lean forward as far as the handcuffs will allow, closing the physical distance between myself and the detective.
"You are operating on a fabricated timeline, Detective," I say, my voice dropping to a low, lethal register.
"You know the cameras were disabled. You know the accelerant implies premeditation.
And you know that I did not leave the ballroom after my meeting with the board.
You are sitting in this room because Preston Vance told the police commissioner to put me here. "
Miller flushes, the accusation hitting a nerve. He knows the arrest is weak. He knows a defense attorney will tear the contractor’s testimony apart in front of a judge. But he also knows he can't disobey orders from the top.
"We have motive," Miller says, tapping the file. "Multiple witnesses heard your fiancée threaten to burn the house down at a family dinner two weeks ago. And tonight, you threatened your father in the library. You told him you would burn his empire to the ground."
"I was speaking metaphorically about corporate structure," I reply. "Audrey was speaking metaphorically about the toxic environment of the family."
"It’s a hell of a coincidence, Mr. Vance."
"It is not a coincidence. It is a setup." I lean back in the metal chair, the chains rattling against the table. "My father set his own house on fire to frame me, because he knew I was preparing to resign from the company."
Miller frowns, genuinely thrown by the statement. "You resigned?"
"I informed the board of my resignation at eight o'clock last night," I say. "Preston retaliated."
Sterling looks at me, his pen pausing on the legal pad. I didn't tell him I resigned. I didn't tell him anything about the confrontation in the library.
"If you resigned," Miller says slowly, "why would you burn the house down?"
"I wouldn't." I hold his gaze. "Which is why you are currently holding an innocent man in custody while the actual arsonist is sitting in a hotel room in Lake Forest, waiting for you to process the insurance claim."
The door to the interrogation room opens before Miller can respond.
A uniform officer steps inside, looking nervous. He leans down and whispers something into Miller’s ear.
Miller’s expression changes. The aggressive, interrogator mask drops, replaced by utter confusion. He looks at me, then down at the file on the table, and then back at the officer.
"Are you sure?" Miller asks the officer.
"Yes, sir. He’s in the captain’s office right now."
Miller stands up. He doesn't say a word to me or Sterling. He just grabs the file, walks out of the room, and the heavy door clicks shut behind him.
Sterling sighs, closing his briefcase. "What did you do, Malcolm?"
"I didn't do anything," I reply, looking at the clock on the wall.
7:42 AM.
"They don't pull the lead detective out of an interrogation unless the narrative just shifted," Sterling points out, leaning back in his chair. "Did you arrange a payoff?"
"No."
I stare at the sweeping second hand on the clock.
I didn't arrange a payoff. I didn't arrange anything. I handed the weapon to Audrey, and I walked into the cage.
For the last six hours, I have been sitting in this room, fighting the violent, irrational urge to rip the metal ring out of the table and tear this precinct apart just to get back to her.
The thought of her alone in the city, holding the flash drive, knowing Preston is actively hunting for it, has been a physical agony.
But I trusted her.
I trusted her to understand the leverage. I trusted her to use it.
The door opens again.
Miller walks back in. He doesn't sit down. He doesn't open the file. He looks at me with an expression of deep, profound irritation.
"Take the cuffs off," Miller orders the uniform officer standing behind him.
Sterling sits up straight. "Are you releasing my client?"
"The primary witness just recanted his statement," Miller says through gritted teeth.
"Simon Vance walked into the precinct ten minutes ago.
He told the captain that he misheard the conversation in the library.
He stated that you never threatened the estate, and that the contractor who claimed to see you near the east wing is a known liar who was recently fired from the security division. "
The officer unlocks the handcuffs. The heavy steel falls away from my wrists.
I rub the raw skin, my expression completely blank.
Simon broke.
He didn't wait for Preston to fix it. He didn't wait for the lawyers. He walked into a police station and directly contradicted his own father’s narrative, effectively destroying the entire foundation of the arrest warrant.
Audrey didn't just use the leverage. She executed it flawlessly.
"Simon also stated," Miller continues, his voice tight, "that he believes the fire was caused by faulty wiring in the east wing renovations. He claims Preston knew about the wiring and ignored it."
I stand up, rolling my shoulders to release the stiffness from sitting in the metal chair. "Simon is remarkably cooperative."
"He looked terrified," Miller mutters, almost to himself. He looks at me. "You’re free to go, Mr. Vance. The charges are dropped pending further investigation into the electrical contractors."
"Thank you, Detective."
I don't wait for Sterling. I walk out of the interrogation room, moving through the busy, chaotic bullpen of the precinct. My chest is tight, the adrenaline spiking sharp and fast as I head for the main exit.
I push through the glass doors, stepping out into the freezing morning air.
Grant is standing by the SUV parked illegally at the curb.
He opens the back door as I approach. "Sir."
"Where is she?" I ask, sliding into the back seat.
"The safe house in the West Loop," Grant replies, getting into the driver’s seat.
"I moved her there immediately after you were detained.
The penthouse is compromised. Preston sent a team of contractors to the building at three in the morning.
They bypassed the biometric locks using a holding company override. "
A cold, absolute fury settles over me.
Preston didn't even wait for the sun to come up. He realized I didn't have the flash drive on me when I was arrested, so he sent his men to tear my home apart looking for it.
"Did they find anything?" I ask, as Grant pulls the SUV into traffic.
"No. Miss Jennings secured the drive before we left." Grant looks at me in the rearview mirror. "She called Simon at two in the morning, Malcolm. She told him she had the original files, and she gave him until eight o'clock to recant the arson accusation, or she would send the ledgers to the SEC."
I lean back against the leather seat, staring out the window at the gray city streets.
I am going to let him think he won.
I thought I was protecting her by taking the fall. I thought I was shielding her from the fallout of my own family’s toxicity.
But she didn't need a shield.
She took the weapon I gave her, walked straight up to the man who ruined her life, and pulled the trigger without a single moment of hesitation.
"She leveraged him," I murmur, a dark, overwhelming sense of pride swelling in my chest.
"She terrified him," Grant corrects quietly. "Simon was crying on the phone."
The SUV merges onto the highway, heading toward the West Loop. The drive takes twenty minutes, but it feels like hours. Every second that I am not in the same room as her feels like a tactical error.
Grant pulls the car into an unmarked, underground parking garage beneath a converted warehouse building. The safe house is a completely off-the-grid location I use for high-risk extractions. Preston doesn't know it exists. The holding company doesn't have the deed.
I step out of the car before Grant even puts it in park.
I walk to the secure elevator, swiping my palm across the biometric scanner. The doors open. I step inside, hitting the button for the top floor.
The elevator opens directly into the loft.
The space is massive, industrial, and completely devoid of the sterile luxury of the penthouse. Exposed brick walls, steel beams, and heavy blast-proof windows.
Audrey is sitting on the edge of a worn leather sofa in the center of the room.
She is wearing her jeans and the heavy winter coat she arrived in. The duffel bag is sitting on the floor next to her feet. She is holding a mug of tea, staring blankly at the exposed brick wall.
She looks exhausted. The adrenaline crash has clearly hit her, leaving her pale and fragile against the harsh industrial backdrop of the safe house.
She hears the elevator doors open.
She turns her head.
The mug slips from her hands, shattering against the concrete floor. Hot tea splashes across the toes of her boots, but she doesn't even flinch.
She stands up.
I cross the room. I don't walk. I move with a frantic, desperate urgency that I have never allowed myself to feel in my entire life.
I reach her, my arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her completely off the floor. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and the cold city air clinging to her coat.
She wraps her arms around my neck, holding on so tightly it actually hurts. She is shaking, a full-body tremor that she can no longer suppress.
"You're out," she whispers against my skin, her voice cracking. "He actually did it. Simon actually did it."
"He did it because you gave him no other choice," I murmur, sliding my hand up to the back of her head, tangling my fingers in her messy hair. "You broke him, Audrey."
"I had to." She pulls back slightly, her hands framing my face.
Her eyes are wide, searching my features for any sign of injury.
She traces the red marks the handcuffs left on my wrists with her thumb.
"Preston sent people to the penthouse. Grant told me.
They would have found the drive if we had stayed. "
"They didn't find it. Because you were smarter than them." I kiss her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, needing the physical contact to prove she is actually here and safe.
"I thought I lost you," she breathes against my lips. "When the police took you... I thought he won."
"He didn't win." I set her back down on her feet, but I don't let go of her waist. "Preston is out of moves. Simon betrayed him. The arson narrative is dead. The only thing Preston has left is his pride, and by the end of the week, he won't even have that."
Audrey looks up at me, the fear in her eyes slowly receding, replaced by the fierce, absolute loyalty that makes her so devastatingly dangerous.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now," I say, my thumb brushing against the vintage diamond on her left hand, "we finish it."
I look around the cold, industrial safe house. We are off the grid. We are untraceable.
But we are not hiding.
"Preston thinks I am weakened because I resigned," I tell her, my voice dropping to a lethal, absolute register. "He thinks losing the company means I lost my power. He is about to learn that the company was the only thing keeping me polite."
I pull her back against my chest, resting my chin on the top of her head.
The war is no longer corporate. It is entirely personal.
And I am going to tear my father’s empire apart, brick by brick, until there is nothing left but the woman standing in my arms.