Chapter 6 - The Tower of Glass
The elevator ascended with a sickening, silent velocity, the digital counter racing through the floors: *20... 35... 50...*
Leo stood near the control panel, his hand trembling as he held the override key in place. Every ping of the floor sensor sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.
"The executive security team is headed by a man named Briggs," Leo whispered, his eyes glued to the security feed displayed on Claire’s tablet. "He’s an ex-mercenary Walter put on the corporate payroll ten years ago. He doesn't ask questions. If he sees anyone who isn't Walter or Adrian on the 66th floor, he shoots."
"Where will Adrian be?" I asked.
"Down on 64, sweet-talking the board members," Leo said with disgust. "He’ll be playing the handsome, charismatic heir, explaining away the 'minor delay' at the church as a bridal fainting spell. The board members are old, conservative men who want their dividends. They won't look too closely as long as the papers are signed before the stroke of midnight."
*Ping.*
The elevator slowed, its digital display settling on **Floor 65: Mechanical and Private Suites.**
"This is the buffer floor," Claire said, racking the slide of her handgun and slipping it into her jacket pocket. "The private residence stairs lead directly up into the penthouse master suite. Leo, stay in the elevator car. Keep the doors pinned open with the maintenance override. If we aren't back in fifteen minutes, you take this car to the basement and run."
"I’m not leaving you," Leo said, his voice surprisingly firm. "I spent my whole life being Walter’s coward. If you die up there, I die down here."
I squeezed the boy’s shoulder. "Keep the doors open, Leo. That's how we survive."
Claire and I stepped out into the dimly lit service corridor of Floor 65. The air up here was pressurized and cold, smelling of expensive leather and polished mahogany from the private executive suites.
We moved silently down the carpeted hallway toward the private internal staircase that connected to the penthouse above. At the base of the stairs, a heavy iron-core door stood slightly ajar.
From above, the harsh, clinical sound of an argument drifted down the stairwell.
"She’s not responding to the saline, Walter! Her pupils are fully dilated! We gave her enough midazolam to put down an elk!"
It was an unfamiliar voice—high, nervous, clinical. The private doctor.
Then came Walter Vance’s unmistakable, gravelly baritone, dripping with absolute contempt:
"I don't give a damn about her pupils, Doctor. Slap her. Pump her full of amphetamines. Get her upright and get that pen into her fingers. We have forty minutes before the board convenes."
"Walter, look at her neck!" another voice called out—Adrian’s voice, sharp and frantic. "Look at the scar beneath the jawline! Elena didn't have a surgical scar there!"
A heavy silence fell over the upper floor.
Claire and I crept up the carpeted stairs, staying low against the brass railing. Peering through the horizontal gap between the upper balusters, we looked directly into the sprawling, multi-million-dollar penthouse living room.
In the center of the room, lying limp across an ivory leather sofa, was the woman in the ruined wedding dress. Her lace veil had been ripped away, exposing her pale, bruised face.
It was Julianna.
Her dark hair was matted with sweat, her chest rising and falling in shallow, agonizing hitches. Beside her stood a man in a white medical coat holding an open syringe case.
Walter Vance stood at the foot of the sofa, his posture rigid as an iron spike. His tailored tuxedo was immaculate, his silver hair combed back with military precision.
Adrian stood two feet away, clutching a crystal tumbler of whiskey, his face pale as paper. He had a bloody scratch across his left cheek where my bouquet had struck him.
"It’s Julianna," Adrian stammered, stepping backward, nearly dropping his glass. "My God, Walter... she’s dead. We killed her two years ago!"
*Smack!*
The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room like a gunshot. Walter’s open palm struck Adrian across the face with terrifying force, sending the younger man stumbling against a marble console table.
"Get hold of yourself, you pathetic idiot!" Walter snarled, wiping his hand with a linen handkerchief. "She survived the fall. She’s been working with Claire Davis. They switched places at the hotel."
"Then where is Elena?" Adrian gasped, clutching his bruised jaw. "Walter, if Elena isn't here, who signs the charter? The board is downstairs right now! It’s 11:15!"
Walter stepped over to Julianna’s unconscious form. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold fountain pen, and looked down at her with cold, merciless eyes.
"Julianna’s legal death certificate was never filed with the federal registrar—only the state probate court," Walter said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The original marriage license from two years ago is still valid in the system’s legal queue. We forge her signature on the ratification annex, present her to the board as Adrian’s lawful wife, and then..."
Walter paused, turning to glance toward the corner of the room where Briggs, the head of security, stood silently with an assault rifle slung across his chest.
"And then?" Adrian whispered.
"And then," Walter said smoothly, "Julianna has a tragic, fatal relapse from the sedatives we had to administer for her 'nervous breakdown.' The trust passes to you unconditionally at midnight. The board ratifies the succession. By tomorrow morning, both Julianna and Elena will be tragic memories, and our empire will be secure."
I felt Claire’s muscles tense beside me. Her hand tightened on the grip of her pistol.
"Not tonight, Walter," I whispered.
May you like
I reached down to the silver phone in my hand, connected it to the penthouse’s wireless media control hub—a system I had helped Adrian set up in this very room two months ago—and tapped the red broadcast icon.
***
