CHAPTER 1— THE CALL THAT BROKE THE GLASS
Eight.
Nine.
The numbers formed inside my mind like a metronome I no longer trusted.
Each impact of the cane blurred the edges of the penthouse—the orchids, the glass, even Matthew’s breathing. What remained sharp was my own focus. Survival strips everything unnecessary.
“Still counting?” he mocked, breathing harder now. “You always did love numbers. Makes you feel in control, doesn’t it?”
Ten.
The cane struck again, but this time my body barely registered it. Something inside me had already shifted—quiet, irreversible.
Eleven.
My hand, trembling and slick with blood, slid slowly across the marble floor. Not toward him.
Away.
Toward the side table where my phone lay face-down beside a half-empty glass of untouched water.
Matthew saw the movement.
His grip tightened.
“No,” he said sharply, stepping forward.
Twelve.
His mistake was looking at my hand instead of my eyes.
Because I wasn’t asking anymore.
I was choosing.
My fingers closed around the phone.
Thirteen.
“Put it down,” he snapped, his voice cracking for the first time.
Too late.
I pressed one button.
Not emergency services.
Not security.
A direct line.
One that had not been dialed in seven years.
The phone rang once.
A second time.
Matthew froze.
And on the third ring—
A calm, older voice answered.
“Clara.”
My father.
Just my name. No surprise. No hesitation.
Only certainty.
I exhaled, blood on my lips.
“I need you,” I said quietly.
There was a pause.
Then—
“Put him on speaker.”
Matthew’s face changed.
For the first time that night, he looked uncertain.
I turned the phone outward.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
The voice that answered was no longer calm.
It was cold.
Not angry.
Worse.
May you like
Decisive.
“This is the man who owns half the financial backbone of your company,” my father said. “And you’ve just made a very expensive mistake.”
