Chapter 3 - THE DOCKLAND DREAMS
At four o'clock, Mason slammed the door of the estate's private study and marched down the grand hallway, holding a sheet of paper.
He found Claire in the conservatory, watering her mother's orchids.
"You didn't sign the bank release," Mason growled, thrusting the paper in front of her face. "The regional manager called my phone and said the wire requires your physical signature or a biometric verification."
Claire didn't look at the paper. She continued watering a delicate white orchid with a small silver pitcher.
"I told you this morning, Mason," Claire said, her voice smooth and unnervingly quiet. "That account is reserved for commercial construction payroll. If I sign that release, sixty workers on the riverfront development project won't get paid on Friday."
Mason stepped closer, his shadow falling over her like a dark shroud.
"Do you think I care about sixty construction workers?" he sneered. "I need that liquid capital to secure the shipping manifest for Julian’s cargo at the port tonight."
"Julian’s cargo isn't legal, Mason," Claire said softly, turning her head to meet his eyes. "And I will no longer use my family's money to finance stolen cars and illegal firearms."
Mason’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched beneath his tattooed skin. He reached out, taking the silver watering pitcher from her hand, and threw it across the conservatory. It struck a glass pane, sending a loud, echoing crack through the greenhouse.
"You listen to me, you arrogant little bitch," Mason hissed, leaning in until his nose was inches from hers. "You think you're smart because you went to college and read books? You're nothing without me. If I walk away from this estate today, my guys will strip this house clean, and your father's company will be in federal receivership by morning."
Claire didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She looked directly into his dark, bloodshot eyes.
"Then walk away," Claire said quietly.
Mason stared at her, genuinely shocked by the absolute absence of fear in her voice. He had spent nine months breaking her down, chipping away at her confidence until she was a trembling wreck who apologized for cold tea.
To see her standing here, looking at him with stone-cold indifference, sent a flicker of dark, irrational panic through his chest.
He grabbed her arm, his thick fingers digging into her wrist until her skin turned red.
"You're coming with me tonight," Mason snarled.
"Where?"
"To the Harbor Room," Mason said, his voice laced with venom. "Julian wants to see the Whitmore heiress in person before he approves the credit line. You're going to put on a pretty dress, sit beside me in the VIP lounge, look happy, and smile for his investors. And tomorrow morning, you're going to sign that bank release."
"And if I refuse to go?" Claire asked softly.
Mason leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Then tomorrow morning, the construction site on the riverfront catches fire. And those sixty workers you care so much about won't have jobs to worry about anyway."
Claire felt a cold shiver run down her spine, but she kept her face completely calm.
"What time do we leave?" she asked.
Mason smirked, releasing her wrist with a dismissive shove. "Eight o'clock sharp. Wear black. I want you looking like you're still in mourning."
He turned and strode out of the conservatory, leaving her alone among the broken glass and damp orchids.
Claire looked down at her wrist, where five bright red thumbprints were rising against her pale skin.
She lifted her hand, pulled up her phone, and typed a quick message to her contact:
We are going to the Harbor Room at eight. He is threatening the riverfront construction site if I don't cooperate.
The reply was instantaneous:
May you like
Good. Let him threaten you. Let him feel invincible tonight.
Because at the Harbor Room, the shadows belong to us.
