Chapter 7: The Service Gate
The ballroom was emptying, guests spilling out onto the verandas to watch the smoke clear from the fireworks. Emma avoided the main halls, navigating the maze of servant corridors and back kitchens she knew like the back of her hand. Her lungs burned, and her arms ached, but the terrified heartbeat of the boy pressed against her chest fueled her forward.
"Emma," Ethan mumbled, his head lolling against her shoulder. "My head hurts."
"I know, baby. I know. We're almost out," she promised, bursting through the heavy double doors that led to the loading dock.
The cool night air hit her like a wall. The loading dock was packed with catering vans and florist trucks. Drivers were smoking cigarettes near the edge of the property, waiting for the party to officially end so they could begin the massive cleanup.
Emma ducked behind a stack of empty champagne crates. She needed a vehicle. The keys to the Sterling fleet were locked in the security office, but caterers were notoriously careless.
She spotted a white transit van idling near the service ramp, its side door slid open. The driver was a hundred yards away, flirting with one of the coat-check girls.
"Hold on tight, Ethan," Emma whispered. She darted across the asphalt, hoisted the boy into the passenger seat, and climbed behind the wheel. The van smelled intensely of stale shrimp and bleach, but the keys were in the ignition.
Emma slammed the van into gear. The tires screeched against the pavement, drawing the immediate attention of the smoking staff.
In the rearview mirror, Emma saw the heavy doors of the loading dock fly open. Three men in dark suits—Isabella’s newly hired, private security team—poured out, weapons drawn. They weren't regular estate guards; they were mercenaries.
"Get down!" Emma yelled, shoving Ethan’s head toward the floorboard.
Gunfire popped, sounding like leftover firecrackers, but the shattering of the van’s rear window proved otherwise. Glass rained down in the back of the cargo hold. Emma slammed her foot on the gas, tearing down the winding service road that led to the estate's rear gates.
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The heavy iron service gates were closed. The red light of the security camera blinked angrily at her. Emma braced herself, gripped the steering wheel, and didn't lift her foot.
The van slammed into the iron bars with a deafening crunch. The gates buckled, groaned, and gave way, scraping violently against the sides of the van as Emma burst through into the dark, winding roads of upstate New York.
