Chapter 7 – THE SILVER TRAY IN THE DOORWAY

The heavy silver tray slammed brutally into Victoria’s face with a sickening crack.

Victoria shrieked, stumbling backward into the room, dropping the clipboard she had been holding. The heavy oak door swung wide open.

I didn’t hesitate. I dropped the tray and lunged into the room, slamming the door shut behind me and throwing the deadbolt.

“Nathan! I’m inside!” I yelled into my earpiece, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Hold her, Rachel! Marco is bypassing the stairs now!” Nathan’s voice roared in my ear, tight with panic.

The room wasn’t a standard hospital room. It was a luxurious suite, complete with a sitting area and a massive bed.

Sitting rigidly in a winged armchair in the corner was Margaret. Her hands were zip-tied to the armrests, and a fresh, dark bruise bloomed across her cheekbone. But her eyes, sharp and clear, burned with absolute fury.

“Rachel!” Margaret gasped, a mixture of shock and profound relief washing over her face.

Victoria scrambled to her feet, clutching her bleeding nose, her expensive silk blouse stained with crimson. She looked at me, her eyes wild with feral, desperate hatred.

“You stupid little bitch!” Victoria screamed, reaching behind her back.

She pulled a small, silver revolver from her waistband and aimed it directly at my chest.

I froze, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp. I had never stared down the barrel of a gun before. The small, dark hole looked impossibly large.

“Back away from the door,” Victoria commanded, her voice shaking with adrenaline and pain. “Unlock it. Now.”

“Don’t do it, Rachel,” Margaret ordered firmly from her chair, her voice remarkably steady despite the gun pointed at me. “She’s not going to shoot you. She needs you alive to open the vault in Ohio.”

Victoria’s manic eyes snapped toward the older woman, pure venom in her gaze.

“Shut up, you senile old hag!” Victoria shrieked, waving the gun wildly between me and Margaret. “The vault doesn’t matter anymore! If Nathan is here, the plan is blown. I just need a hostage to get out of this building!”

She aimed the gun back at me, stepping closer.

“Unlock the door, Rachel,” Victoria threatened, cocking the hammer of the revolver with a terrifying click. “Or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in your stomach and leave you to bleed out while I take the old woman.”

I swallowed hard, my hands trembling. If I opened the door, Victoria would force Margaret into the hallway and use her as a human shield against Nathan. I couldn’t let her take Margaret again.

I took a slow step backward, pretending to comply, my hands raised in surrender.

“Okay, Victoria,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Just… just don’t shoot.”

I reached my hand behind me, fumbling for the heavy brass deadbolt on the door.

“Hurry up!” Victoria snapped, stepping even closer, the barrel of the gun mere inches from my face.

“Rachel, duck!” Nathan’s voice suddenly screamed in my earpiece.

I didn’t think. I threw myself violently to the plush carpet.

A deafening, catastrophic explosion rocked the suite.

The heavy, solid oak door I had just been standing in front of was blown completely off its hinges, splintering inward in a shower of wood and metal.

The concussive force threw Victoria backward, knocking the silver revolver from her hand. She screamed as she hit the floor, showered in debris.

Through the smoke and ruined doorway stepped Nathan Sullivan.

He didn’t look like a businessman anymore. He looked like the devil himself. He held a heavy tactical shotgun in his hands, the barrel still smoking from blowing the hinges.

Marco stepped in right behind him, his weapon drawn, sweeping the room with lethal precision.

Nathan didn’t look at Victoria groaning on the floor. He didn’t look at Marco.

He dropped his shotgun and rushed straight to me.

“Rachel,” Nathan breathed, dropping to his knees beside me, his large hands frantically checking my arms and face for injuries. “Are you hit? Did she shoot you?”

“I’m okay,” I gasped, clutching his strong forearms, tears of pure relief spilling over my lashes. “I’m okay. I ducked.”

Nathan let out a deep, shuddering sigh, pulling me fiercely against his chest. He buried his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care. I buried my hands in his dark hair, clinging to him as the adrenaline finally crashed.

“Nathaniel!” Margaret’s voice broke the moment, sharp and reprimanding. “As much as I appreciate the dramatic rescue, I am currently zip-tied to a chair.”

Nathan pulled back, a reluctant, exhausted smile touching his lips. He helped me to my feet, keeping one protective arm securely around my waist.

He walked over to his mother. He pulled a heavy tactical knife from his belt and sliced through the thick plastic zip-ties securing her wrists.

Margaret rubbed her bruised wrists, wincing slightly, before looking up at her son.

“You blew a hole in a very expensive door, Nathaniel,” Margaret chided softly, though her eyes were shining with tears.

“I’ll buy them a new one, Ma,” Nathan smiled gently, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” Margaret scoffed, glaring down at Victoria, who was currently being hauled to her feet by Marco. “And she hits like a toddler.”

Victoria was bleeding from the nose, her silk blouse ruined, trembling violently as Marco pinned her arms behind her back. The arrogant, manipulative fiancée was completely broken.

Nathan slowly turned away from his mother. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by an absolute, terrifying coldness as he looked at Victoria.

He walked over to her, stopping inches away. He towered over her, his presence suffocating.

“You drugged my mother,” Nathan whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You kidnapped her. And you pointed a gun at the woman I love.”

My breath caught in my throat. The woman I love.

Victoria sobbed hysterically, shaking her head. “Nathan, please! My father forced me! He said the loan sharks were going to kill us! I didn’t have a choice!”

“You always had a choice, Victoria,” Nathan stated coldly. “And you chose poorly.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t strike her. He simply looked at Marco.

“Turn her over to the police downstairs,” Nathan ordered, his voice devoid of all mercy. “Give them the security footage from the hallway showing her holding my mother at gunpoint. Give them the financial ledgers proving her father’s fraud. Let them both rot in federal prison for the rest of their miserable lives.”

“No!” Victoria screamed, fighting wildly against Marco’s grip. “Nathan, you can’t! I’ll die in prison!”

“Then you should have stayed in the kitchen,” Nathan said, turning his back on her.

Marco dragged a screaming, sobbing Victoria out of the ruined suite, her desperate pleas echoing down the sterile hallway until the elevator doors closed.

The room finally fell silent, save for the distant wail of police sirens approaching the facility.

Nathan let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing a hand aggressively over his face, the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally catching up to him.

He looked at his mother, then at me.

“It’s over,” Nathan said softly.

“It is,” Margaret agreed, standing up slowly, brushing the dust from her skirt. She looked at me, a warm, genuine smile spreading across her bruised face. “And I believe I owe you an apology, Rachel.”

I blinked, confused. “An apology? For what, Margaret?”

“For telling you that you murdered those eggs the other morning,” Margaret chuckled softly, walking over and gently taking my hand. “You are a very brave girl. And I would be honored to have you murder eggs in my kitchen any time you like.”

I smiled, tears pricking my eyes again.

“I’d like that very much,” I said.

Nathan walked over, wrapping his strong arm around my waist, pulling me close to his side. He looked down at me, a profound, unshakeable devotion in his dark eyes.

“I think,” Nathan murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my temple, “we need to have a serious conversation about those burnt pancakes.”

I laughed, leaning into his warmth, the terror of the night finally fading into memory.

But as we turned to walk out of the ruined suite, my foot brushed against something hidden in the debris near the blown-out door.

I looked down.

It was Victoria’s silk handbag. The explosion had torn it open, scattering the remaining contents across the plush carpet.

And resting amidst the rubble, glinting under the harsh overhead lights, was a small, familiar object.

It was a faded, black-and-white photograph.

I frowned, kneeling down to pick it up.

It was a picture of my mother, Sarah Dawson, holding me as a baby.

But as I turned the photograph over, the blood ran completely cold in my veins.

Written on the back, in elegant, unmistakable cursive, was a single sentence.

Nathaniel is not his father’s son.

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