Stalked By The Mad Dog Nephew

Rain slashed against the tinted windows of the limousine, a rhythmic drumming that matched the pounding in Avery Preston's temples. She didn't move to open the door immediately. Instead, she sat in the climate-controlled silence, staring at the neon sign of the Vanguard Club blurring through the wet glass. Her fingers, manicured to a pale, harmless nude, trembled slightly in her lap.

It was a practiced tremor.

"Mrs. Garrison?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. "Do you need an umbrella?"

"No, thank you, Charles." Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. It was the voice everyone expected from her. The voice of a woman who was slowly fading away, consumed by nerves and a constitution too fragile for the harsh realities of New York City.

Avery pulled her coat tighter around her throat, stepping out into the deluge. The cold dampness bit at her skin, but she didn't hurry. She adjusted her posture, hunching her shoulders just enough to look small, defenseless. The bouncer at the velvet rope took one look at her pale face and the expensive cut of her soaking coat and unhooked the barrier without a word.

She stepped inside.

The bass hit her chest first, a physical thud that vibrated through her ribs. The air inside was thick, a cloying mixture of expensive cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of spilled alcohol. Avery navigated the crowd, keeping her eyes downcast, playing the part of the terrified wife searching for a wayward relative.

The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a heavy beard, didn't need to ask who she was looking for. He simply jerked his chin toward the far corner of the room, a VIP booth shrouded in shadow.

Avery walked toward the darkness.

Glass crunched under her heels. The sound was sharp, distinct even over the music. She stopped at the edge of the booth.

Brandon Garrison was sprawled across the leather banquette like a fallen king. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a chest sheen with sweat. His knuckles were split open, fresh blood trickling down his fingers to stain the pristine white tablecloth. He was laughing, a low, guttural sound that had cleared the immediate area of anyone sane.

A waitress, terrified and holding a dustpan, tried to approach the mess of shattered tumblers on the floor.

"Leave it," Brandon snarled, not looking at her. He waved a hand aggressively, sending a half-empty bottle spinning off the table. It crashed against the wall. The waitress flinched and scurried away.

Avery took a breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned. She stepped into his line of sight, clutching her purse to her stomach as if it were a shield.

"Brandon," she said. Her voice wavered perfectly.

He froze. The laughter died in his throat. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, the pupils blown wide. He looked like a man who had been running for days, or perhaps hunting.

A slow, dark smirk spread across his face as he recognized her.

"Aunt Avery," he drawled. The title dripped with venom. "Did Augustus send his little nurse to fetch me?"

"Please, Brandon." Avery took a step closer, careful to avoid the glass. "It's late. You're bleeding. Let's go home."

He stood up.

The movement was sudden, violent. He towered over her, six feet and two inches of coiled muscle and drunken rage. He kicked the heavy oak table aside as if it were made of cardboard. The crash silenced the nearby conversations.

Avery didn't back down, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. She couldn't break character. Not here. Not yet.

He cornered her against the high back of the leather booth. The smell of him-whiskey, copper blood, and a feverish, overwhelming body heat-invaded her senses. He leaned down, invading her personal space until his nose was inches from hers.

"Home?" he whispered, his voice rough like gravel. "To that mausoleum? To your husband who is currently balls-deep in his secretary?"

Avery flinched. It was a reflex she allowed herself. "Stop it, Brandon."

"You're such a dutiful little doll, aren't you?" His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip was iron-tight, bruising. He pulled her hand away from her chest, exposing her. "Do you even have a pulse, Avery? Or are you just plastic all the way through?"

His face moved closer. The line between aggression and desire blurred terrifyingly. He was looking at her mouth, his eyes dropping to her lips with a hunger that had no place between a nephew and his aunt by marriage.

"Let's see if you break," he murmured.

He leaned in to kiss her. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a weapon. A tool of humiliation meant to shatter the fragile reality she clung to.

Survival instinct overrode the script.

Avery's free hand moved before she registered the decision. She slapped him.

The sound was a sharp crack, cutting through the heavy bass of the club music. Her palm stung, a burning sensation that traveled up her arm. She gasped, her chest heaving, realizing instantly that she had slipped. The terrified, submissive Avery Preston would never strike a Garrison.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Brandon didn't recoil. He didn't get angry.

He slowly lifted his hand to his cheek, touching the red mark blooming there. And then, he smiled. It wasn't the mocking smirk from before. It was a genuine, dark smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"There she is," he whispered, almost reverently. "Why do you stay with a man who doesn't even want you, Avery? When you have fire like that?"

Avery regained her composure, pulling the mask back into place with a sheer force of will. She yanked her wrist from his grip, rubbing the spot where his fingers had dug in.

"Get in the car, Brandon," she ordered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a suppressed fury she couldn't let him see. She turned her back on him, walking away without checking if he would follow.

She didn't need to look. She could feel him behind her. He followed her out of the club, not like a chastised relative, but like a predator stalking its prey.

The partition between the driver and the passenger cabin was up. The rear of the limousine was a hermetically sealed box of silence, cut off from the rainy chaos of New York streets.

Brandon sprawled on the leather seat opposite her, his long legs taking up most of the floor space. He wasn't looking at the window; he was watching her. His gaze was heavy, physical, tracing the line of her jaw, the pulse fluttering in her neck.

Avery rubbed her wrist. A faint bruise was already forming, a purple fingerprint against her pale skin.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Brandon said. His voice was devoid of the slurring drunkenness he had displayed in the club. "It was... a test. I was testing your reflexes."

"You're drunk, Brandon," Avery said, keeping her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.

"Am I?" He chuckled darkly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just the only one honest enough to tell you that Augustus is probably at the St. Regis right now. Room 402. He likes the view of the park."

Avery felt a muscle in her jaw tick, but she didn't turn. "Stop."

"He doesn't deserve you," Brandon continued, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out across the gap between them. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. His touch was scorching hot against her cold skin. His thumb brushed the collar of her coat, a fleeting, almost imperceptible pressure against the fabric, gone as quickly as it came.

Avery flinched violently. "Stop the car."

"We're on the FDR Drive, Auntie. Can't stop here."

"I said stop!" She reached for the door handle, her fingers curling around the latch. She unlocked it with a loud click. The wind roared outside, threatening to tear the door open if she pushed.

Brandon laughed. He pulled his hand back, raising his palms in surrender. "Alright. Alright. You win. No touching the merchandise."

The car slowed as it approached the iron gates of the Garrison Estate. The massive stone structure loomed in the rain, dark and foreboding.

The car stopped. Brandon opened the door, stumbling slightly as he stepped out onto the wet pavement. He caught himself on the frame, leaning back in to look at her one last time.

"Sweet dreams, Auntie," he whispered, his eyes glittering with a mix of mockery and something far more dangerous. He slammed the door.

Avery waited until he had disappeared through the front entrance of the main house. Then, she pressed the intercom button.

"Charles," she said. Her voice had changed. The tremble was gone. The softness had evaporated, replaced by a tone as cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Take me to the penthouse. I'm not staying here tonight."

Charles's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror as the partition lowered slightly. He looked concerned, his brow furrowed. "Mrs. Garrison... Avery. Why do you let him treat you like that? Why do you endure any of this?"

Avery sat back, her posture shifting. The slump vanished. She crossed her legs, her spine straightening into a line of steel. She pulled her phone from her purse, the screen illuminating her face with a harsh blue light.

"Jiles calls me an asset, Charles," she said, her thumb scrolling through a stock alert for Garrison Biotech. "Do you know the first rule of asset management?"

Charles stayed silent, merging the car back onto the highway toward Manhattan.

"An asset must depreciate before it can be written off," she said, her eyes scanning the numbers. "I need to be worthless to them. I need to be broken, pitied, and weak. Only then will they let me go without a fight."

"And Augustus?" Charles asked quietly.

"I feel nothing for Augustus," she said. The truth of it was liberating. "Is the file ready for tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everything is in order."

Avery nodded. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pill bottle. She shook out a single vitamin, swallowing it dry, though she would tell anyone who asked that it was a sedative for her nerves. She pulled down the vanity mirror, staring at her reflection.

She practiced the expression-eyes slightly widened, mouth turned down at the corners. The face of a sad, neglected wife.

"Good," she murmured to her reflection.

The limousine descended into the underground garage of the penthouse building on 5th Avenue. As the car turned the corner toward the private elevator bank, Avery's eyes darted to the parking spot reserved for 4A.

Augustus's sleek black sports car was there.

And on the passenger seat, clearly visible through the windshield, was a bright silk scarf. It was Hermes. Garish. Not something Avery would ever wear.

Avery didn't cry. She didn't gasp.

She smiled. It was a faint, terrifying curve of her lips.

"Perfect," she whispered.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the foyer of the penthouse. Avery stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. The lights in the apartment were dimmed to a romantic low, and the soft, mournful notes of a jazz saxophone drifted from the integrated sound system.

She stopped.

Right in the center of the entryway rug, a pair of red stilettos had been kicked off haphazardly. One lay on its side, the red sole gleaming under the recessed lighting. Avery recognized them immediately. They were the limited edition Louboutins she had mentioned wanting three months ago. Augustus had said they were "too flashy" for a Preston.

Apparently, they weren't too flashy for someone else.

Avery walked into the living room, her footsteps silent.

Gilda Nichols was lounging on the Italian leather sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand. She was a beautiful woman, in a sharp, predatory way, with dark hair and eyes that always seemed to be calculating the cost of everything in the room.

She was wearing a white dress shirt. Nothing else.

The shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the curve of her chest. It was Augustus's shirt. Avery had bought it for him in Milan.

Gilda looked up, feigning surprise. She took a slow sip of wine, her gaze raking over Avery's damp coat and tired face. She didn't make a move to cover her bare legs.

"Mrs. Garrison," Gilda purred, the title dripping with syrup. "We didn't expect you back so soon."

A flash of anger sparked in Avery's chest-a primal, territorial instinct-but she suffocated it instantly. She remembered her wedding night, sitting alone in this very room while Augustus went out to "celebrate with the boys." She remembered the coldness.

"Where is my husband?" Avery asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

The glass doors to the balcony slid open. Augustus walked in, a trail of cigar smoke following him. He was wearing suit trousers but no shirt. He stopped when he saw Avery, a frown creasing his forehead. He looked annoyed, like a man whose favorite show had been interrupted by a commercial.

"You're back," he said, sounding bored. "I thought you'd be babysitting Brandon all night. Did you get the drunk under control?"

"He's at the estate," Avery said quietly.

Augustus walked past her, not even glancing at her face. He went straight to the wine bottle on the sideboard and poured a refill for Gilda. The disrespect was palpable. He treated Avery like a piece of furniture that had been placed in an inconvenient spot.

Gilda giggled as Augustus handed her the glass, her hand lingering on his bare arm. She looked at Avery with triumph in her eyes.

Avery clutched her chest. She forced her diaphragm to spasm, initiating a dry, hacking cough. She bent over, her body shaking with the effort.

"For God's sake," Augustus snapped, rolling his eyes. "Are you sick again?"

"I... I think I caught a chill in the rain," Avery wheezed, looking up at him with watery eyes.

"Well, don't stand there infecting us," Augustus said, waving his hand dismissively toward the hallway. "Go to your room. And close the door. I don't want to hear that hacking all night."

"I'm sorry, Augustus," Avery whispered. She looked at Gilda, offering a weak, apologetic nod. Gilda smirked, nestling deeper into the sofa.

Avery turned and retreated. She walked down the long hallway to the guest bedroom-the room she had slept in for the last two years.

She entered the room and closed the door softly. Then, she locked it.

The coughing stopped instantly.

Avery stood in the center of the dark room, her breathing perfectly even. She walked to the closet and reached into the lining of her winter coat, pulling out a small, cheap burner phone.

She powered it on. The screen glowed in the darkness.

She typed a message, her thumbs moving with lightning speed.

The incubator is secure. Proceed.

She hit send.

She walked to the wall calendar hanging by the desk. A date, two weeks from now, was circled in red ink. She touched the circle with her fingertip.

"Enjoy the wine, Gilda," she whispered to the empty room. "You're going to need it."