"You Serve the Wine," His Fiancée Said—Then the Family Attorney Pulled Out My Chair | Part 1

The heavy oak door of the study didn't just open; it was kicked off its brass hinges, the wood splintering inward with a deafening crack.

A figure stepped through the threshold, dressed head-to-toe in black tactical gear, a ski mask obscuring their face. In their right hand, a suppressed automatic pistol caught the dim light of the fireplace.

Adrian didn’t hesitate. Years of suppressed rage at being a pawn in his mother’s games suddenly found a target. With a guttural shout, he lunged forward, swinging the heavy brass fireplace poker like a baseball bat.

The intruder was fast. He ducked under Adrian’s wild swing, driving a brutal elbow into Adrian’s ribs. Adrian doubled over, gasping for air, the poker clattering onto the Persian rug. The intruder raised the pistol, aiming squarely at the back of Adrian’s head.

“No!” Elena screamed.

She didn't run away. She threw herself forward, driving her father's solid steel letter opener deep into the gap of the intruder's tactical vest, right at the collarbone.

The man let out a muffled roar of pain. The pistol discharged, the bullet burying itself into the mahogany bookshelves with a dull thwack. He backhanded Elena, sending her crashing into her father's desk, but the damage was done. The intruder was bleeding heavily, clutching his shoulder.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The estate’s perimeter alarms, triggered by the broken window, were finally blaring.

Realizing his window of opportunity had closed, the intruder locked eyes with Elena for one terrifying second before turning and bolting down the hallway.

Adrian coughed, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood onto the floor. "Are you... are you okay?"

Elena pulled herself up, her breathing ragged. She looked at the blood on the letter opener. "I'm fine. But he wasn't a burglar, Adrian. He didn't ask for the safe combination. He didn't try to grab the art."

Adrian wiped his mouth, his eyes wide with dawn’s horrifying realization. "He came to kill us."

"No," Elena said, looking at the bullet hole in the bookshelves. "He came to kill me. You were just in the way."

Five minutes later, the estate was swarming with local police and private security. Arthur Sterling arrived in a rumpled trench coat, looking older than his years. He took one look at the shattered door and the blood on the carpet and ordered his personal security detail to lock down the wing.

"Did you recognize him?" Sterling asked, pacing the study.

"He was masked," Adrian said, an ice pack pressed to his ribs. "But he was a professional. Mother hired him. I know she did."

"We cannot prove that, Adrian," Sterling cautioned. "Accusing Lady Victoria of attempted murder without evidence will give her the legal ammunition to claim you are both paranoid and unfit to hold board seats."

Elena wasn't listening. She was staring at the bookshelf where the bullet had lodged. She walked over, pulling out a heavy, leather-bound volume of The Count of Monte Cristo. The bullet had shattered the wood behind it.

But as she pulled the book away, she noticed something else. The wood behind the books wasn't solid wall. It was a false backing, now cracked open by the gunfire.