Chapter 2 - THREE MINUTES IN THE COLD
The hallway of the luxury high-rise was silent except for the faint hum of the elevator and the wet slap of wind against the stairwell glass.
My cheek throbbed with a slow, heavy pulse.
Behind the double doors of Penthouse 4B, I could hear the muted beat of a jazz record—Victor’s favorite Miles Davis album—and the sharp, melodic laugh of Kendra Vale. They were opening the eighteen-year-old Macallan I had bought for Victor’s last birthday.
I didn't shiver. I didn't fold my arms over my wet dress. I simply stood beside the brass sconce, looking at my bare feet against the white marble floor.
The elevator chimed.
The heavy bronze doors slid open, and Russell Kent stepped out.
He wore a tailored dark charcoal overcoat, his silver hair neatly combed despite the storm outside. Behind him stood two men in dark suits—Hartwell Group security personnel—and a female associate carrying a plush, full-length mink coat and a pair of soft leather slippers.
Russell’s eyes swept over me: my damp dress, my bare feet, and the sharp red outline of a handprint rising across my left cheekbone.
For three seconds, the quiet, methodical accountant who had managed my father’s empire for thirty years looked capable of murder.
"Miss Hartwell," Russell said softly, his voice trembling with a rare, dangerous fury.
The female associate stepped forward instantly, wrapping the warm mink coat around my shoulders and placing the soft slippers onto my cold feet. The heat sank into my skin, but inside, my mind remained crystal cold.
"Is the car downstairs?" I asked.
"Your father's Maybach is at the curb," Russell replied. "Along with two security details."
"Did you call the precinct?"
"Not yet," Russell said, pulling a leather binder from beneath his arm. "Your father instructed me to confirm your wishes first. If we file criminal charges for domestic assault tonight, the press will break it by six a.m. The Hartwell name will be attached to Victor Hayes before sunrise."
I looked at the brass numbers on the door: 4B.
"No press," I said. "Not yet. If the press knows, Victor will hide behind public relations. He will call it a domestic tragedy. He will try to apologize. I don't want him to apologize."
"What do you want, Miss Hartwell?"
"I want him to execute every document he prepared for tomorrow's acquisition," I said softly. "I want him to feel completely victorious until four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
Russell’s lips curled into a thin, razor-sharp smile. "The Meridian BuildWorks board meeting is scheduled for three thirty."
"Then let him enjoy his morning," I said, stepping into the elevator. "Russell?"
"Yes, Olivia?"
"Call the property management company for this building. The penthouse isn't registered under Meridian, is it?"
"No," Russell answered, pulling out a set of property deeds. "It is registered under Apex Properties LLC—a private holding firm owned entirely by the Hartwell Family Trust. Victor has been paying 'rent' to a ghost account for six years."
"Cancel his lease," I said, as the elevator doors began to close. "Give him until six p.m. tomorrow to clear his clothes. Leave the furniture. I bought it."
As the elevator descended toward the private underground garage, I pulled out my phone and looked at my reflection in the dark glass screen. The red mark on my face was already turning a deep, bruised purple.
I took a picture of my face, saved it to a cloud drive managed by my father’s legal team, and locked the screen.
Down in the garage, the long black Maybach waited, its engine idling silently.
The rear door opened, and I stepped inside.
Sitting in the corner seat, holding a crystal glass of sparkling water, was Arthur Hartwell.
He looked eighty years old in the dim interior light, his thick white hair neatly styled, his tailored suit immaculate. But his dark eyes were the eyes of a man who had built a kingdom out of iron and concrete.
He looked at my face. He didn't reach out to touch the bruise. He didn't gasp. He simply looked at it until his jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched beneath his ear.
"It took seven years," my father said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly pitch.
"I know, Dad," I whispered, sitting beside him.
"Was it worth the lesson, Olivia?"
May you like
I looked out the tinted window as the car pulled out into the torrential Chicago rain, watching the towering glass outline of Penthouse 4B shrink into the dark night.
"The lesson isn't finished yet, Dad," I said softly. "Tomorrow is the test."
