Chapter 7

The cold air of the underground garage rushed into the Maybach, breaking the suffocating tension. Gene grabbed the lunchbox, stepped out of the car, and walked briskly toward the executive elevators.

Donte stepped out a moment later. Instead of heading to his private elevator that went straight to the chairman's suite, he slid his hands into his pockets and followed Gene.

They stepped into the mirrored elevator car. The doors slid shut. The rapid ascent made Gene's stomach drop. Her nerves, already frayed by the car ride, pulled tighter.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened on the 68th floor. This was Alvie's territory as Vice President.

It was the middle of the lunch hour. The plush, carpeted hallway was entirely empty. The silence was absolute.

Gene walked down the corridor, her heels sinking into the carpet, making no sound. She headed straight for the heavy mahogany double doors at the end of the hall. Alvie's private office.

When she was ten feet away, she stopped dead in her tracks.

The heavy door wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open just an inch.

As she stepped closer, a faint, unsettling noise leaked out into the quiet hallway. She stopped dead in her tracks, holding her breath to listen. Only then could she barely make out the muffled, wet sounds of heavy, suppressed breathing and a sickeningly rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.

Then came Gail's voice, breathy and high-pitched.

"Alvie... what if Gene finds out we're doing this on the leather sofa she bought for your anniversary?"

Alvie let out a rough, arrogant laugh. "Don't talk about that boring bitch. Even if she knew, she wouldn't do a damn thing. She can't survive without my money."

The words hit Gene like a physical blow.

The memory of the fire-the heat, the smoke, the absolute betrayal-crashed down on her all at once. Her PTSD flared violently.

Her vision tunneled. The air in the hallway felt too thin to breathe. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably. The heavy lunchbox slipped from her numb fingers.

It was going to hit the floor. It was going to make a massive noise and warn them.

A split second before the metal hit the carpet, a large hand swooped down and caught it silently mid-air.

Gene gasped and spun around.

Donte was standing directly behind her. He was so close his chest almost brushed her back. He set the lunchbox down on a small side table without making a single sound.

His eyes were fixed on the crack in the door. A look of pure, murderous rage flashed across his face, so dark and violent it made Gene's breath hitch.

He leaned down. His lips were inches from her ear.

"Are you scared?" Donte whispered. His breath was hot against her skin.

Gene bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. She stared at the door. Her body was locked in a state of frozen panic. She couldn't move her legs. The trauma was anchoring her to the floor.

Donte didn't push her forward. He didn't open the door for her.

Instead, he raised his large, warm hand and placed it flat against the center of her back.

The heat from his palm burned through her blazer. It was a solid, grounding pressure. It was an anchor pulling her back from the flames of her past.

"Push the door open, Gene," Donte murmured, his voice a dark, hypnotic command. "Face your fear. And then destroy them."

The words poured into her veins like liquid courage. The trembling in her hands stopped. The panic in her chest dissolved, replaced by a white-hot, razor-sharp fury.

She stood up straight. The muscles in her back flexed under Donte's hand.

Gene reached out and wrapped her fingers around the cold brass doorknob. Her eyes were dead.

Donte dropped his hand and took one step back, melting into the shadows of the hallway, giving her the stage.

Gene shoved the door hard.

The heavy mahogany door flew open and slammed against the wall with a deafening BANG.

Inside the office, the two bodies tangled on the sofa shrieked in terror.

Alvie scrambled backward, frantically pulling his unbuttoned dress shirt over his chest. "Who the hell-!" he roared.

His voice died in his throat. His eyes bulged out of his head.

Gene stood in the doorway, framed by the hallway light. She looked like an executioner.

Gail screamed, grabbing a throw pillow to cover her bare chest. Her carefully crafted innocent face was twisted in pure horror.

Gene crossed her arms over her chest. She looked at the disgusting mess on the sofa, and a slow, chilling smile spread across her face.