Chapter 7 - The Reckoning
Sloane’s face drained of all color, every drop of blood evacuating her skin as Grant crossed the room toward her like a freight train off the rails.
“Grant—darling, wait, let me explain,” Sloane stammered, holding up her hands in a defensive gesture, her voice pitching into frantic self-preservation. “It’s not what it looks like! The woman is a thief, she stole my family heirlooms—she tried to blackmail me—”
Grant didn't slow down. He didn't even look at her face as he reached her.
He caught her by the collar of her black turtleneck with one massive hand, lifting her off the floor with effortless strength and slamming her back against the rotting plaster wall so hard the entire structure shook.
The breath left Sloane’s lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp. Her eyes bulged, her hands clawing desperately at his wrists.
“Grant… please…” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
Grant’s face was inches from hers. His expression was so terrifyingly devoid of human emotion that Sloane stopped struggling, her body going entirely rigid with absolute, primal terror.
“If you ever,” Grant whispered, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal intensity that echoed off the bare walls, “touch her again. If you ever speak her name, look at her, or breathe the same air she breathes... I won't just destroy your family’s real estate portfolio. I will take everything your name is built on, brick by brick, and leave you with nothing.”
He released his grip with a sudden, violent shove.
Sloane slumped down the wall, hitting the dusty floorboards in a heap, coughing and gasping for air as she clutched her bruised throat.
Grant turned his back on her instantly.
He dropped to his knees beside Leah, his hands trembling—just slightly—as he reached out to untie the brutal knots around her neck and wrists.
“Leah,” he murmured, his voice cracking, shedding every layer of corporate armor to reveal the raw, bleeding terror underneath. “Leah, look at me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
Leah collapsed forward into his arms, the last of her adrenaline fading into overwhelming, shivering exhaustion. She buried her face against the rough wool of his coat, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar and black coffee, letting the solid, unyielding reality of his embrace anchor her back to the world.
“You came,” she whispered, her voice barely audible against his chest.
May you like
“I told you,” Grant said, holding her tighter as tears of unspent rage finally threatened to spill over his lashes. “You take care of everyone else in my life, Leah. It was about time someone took care of you.”
Behind them, the sound of heavy boots echoed through the shattered doorway as Vance and three private security operatives rushed into the farmhouse, weapons drawn, securing the perimeter and hauling a sobbing, broken Sloane Whitmore up from the floor.
