Chapter 12: The Master Suite
"Put it down, Katarina!"
The name cracked through the silent room like a whip.
Isabella froze, the syringe inches from William’s neck. She slowly turned her head, her perfectly sculpted features twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. When her eyes locked onto Emma—covered in grease, bleeding, and wielding a rusty crowbar—a harsh, barking laugh escaped her lips.
"You are like a cockroach, Emma," Isabella spat, her accent slipping, revealing the harsh, icy tones of her true Russian origins. "I should have shot you in the basement when I had the chance."
"Ethan is safe," Emma said, stepping further into the room, placing herself firmly between Isabella and the door. "I have the thumb drive. I have your flight records. The police know everything."
It was a bluff, but Isabella didn't know that. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine panic crossed the Black Widow's eyes. But she recovered quickly, her expression hardening into stone.
"The police?" Isabella sneered. "By the time those incompetent fools get past my security at the gate, William will be dead, and I will have disappeared into the night. And you? You'll be the deranged, disgruntled maid who murdered her boss."
Without warning, Isabella lunged.
She was incredibly fast. Emma swung the heavy crowbar, aiming for Isabella’s arm, but the other woman ducked gracefully beneath the arc of the heavy iron. Isabella drove her knee viciously into Emma’s stomach. All the air left Emma’s lungs in a violent rush.
She collapsed to the carpet, gasping, dropping the crowbar.
Isabella didn't hesitate. She stepped on Emma’s wrist, grinding her high heel into the bone, and raised the syringe, aiming it directly for Emma’s neck.
"Let's see how much you like taking my husband's medicine," Isabella hissed.
Adrenaline and raw survival instinct surged through Emma's veins. With her free hand, she grabbed the heavy brass fire poker resting on the hearth beside William’s chair and swung it wildly. It caught Isabella across the shins with a sickening crack.
Isabella shrieked, stumbling backward and dropping the syringe. It rolled across the thick Persian rug, coming to a stop near William’s feet.
Emma scrambled away, clutching her bruised ribs, her eyes darting around the room. Isabella recovered with lethal speed. She didn't go for the syringe; instead, she reached into the holster strapped to her thigh beneath her tailored skirt and pulled out a backup handgun.
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She leveled it at Emma’s chest.
"Game over, housekeeping," she whispered.
