Ten days. That was all the doctor believed my six-year-old twins had left, and for the first time in my life, all the money, guns, fear, and power attached to the Mercer name meant absolutely nothing. By three that afternoon, while death waited inside my mansion, a penniless woman stood outside my gates refusing to leave—and I had no idea she was about to change everything.

Crosby Vane looked every bit the corporate warlord—tailored dark suit, silver-rimmed glasses, and a cold, predatory grin that hadn't changed since the day he tried to hostile-takeover my father’s shipping lines twenty years ago.

"Put the gun down, Crosby," I said, stepping out from behind the marble pillar, keeping my weapon leveled at his chest from the second-floor landing. "You're standing on private property, and your men are currently bleeding out on my floor."

"My men are a tax write-off, Lawson," Vane laughed softly, raising his pistol just a fraction higher, training it right between my eyes. "And you... you're a liability. With your twins dying and your empire distracted, the board was ready to vote you out by Monday anyway. All I need is Elena Ross’s research drive from your safe, and my monopoly on the Midwest pharmaceutical market is complete."

"You'll never get the drive," Elena called out, stepping down from the gallery to stand beside me on the landing, her chin held high. "I wiped the cloud servers before I left Geneva. The only complete physical copy is encrypted on a micro-drive inside my coat. And you'd have to tear it out of my dead hands to get it."

Vane's smile faltered, a flash of genuine anger replacing his cool veneer. "Then I suppose we can arrange that."

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet screamed past my ear, splintering the wooden doorframe behind us.

I fired twice. The first round struck Vane’s pistol, shattering the slide and tearing the gun from his grip with a shower of sparks. The second round grazed his shoulder, spinning him violently around against the shattered remains of the front door.

Before Vane could recover, heavy footsteps thundered up the back service stairs.

Prescott Hale and a dozen loyal enforcers flooded the hallway, their weapons drawn, securing the perimeter in less than ten seconds.

Vane knelt on the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his face twisted in rage and disbelief. "You can't touch me, Mercer. The federal indictments... the political connections... I'll be out by morning."

"You won't be seeing a courtroom tomorrow, Crosby," I said, walking slowly down the stairs until I stood directly over him. My voice was colder than the winter wind outside. "You threatened my children. You hunted an innocent woman across state lines. And you destroyed what my wife’s family spent a lifetime building. Prescott... take him to the sub-basement vaults. Lock him in cell four, and throw away the key."

"Understood, boss," Prescott said, hauling Vane to his feet as the bleeding executive was dragged away screaming into the darkness.

The mansion grew quiet once more, save for the hum of the backup generators and the steady, rhythmic beeping of the medical monitors upstairs.

I stood alone in the ruined foyer for a long moment, breathing in the scent of smoke and cordite. Then, I turned and walked back upstairs.

Elena was waiting on the second-floor landing, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me with those fierce, intelligent dark eyes.

"Is it over?" she asked quietly.

"For Vane, yes," I said, stopping a foot away from her. I looked down at her hands, noticing for the first time that her knuckles were scraped and bruised from hurling those statues down the stairs. "You shouldn't have come out of the suite, Elena. It was too dangerous."

"I'm not one of your terrified corporate lackeys, Lawson," she fired back, though there was no heat left in her voice—only profound exhaustion. "I don't hide in closets while other people fight my battles."