"Finally," I breathed, tension I hadn't realized I was holding releasing slightly from my shoulders.
What followed played out on the monitors like a scene from an action film—quick, brutal, efficient. Michael's team moved through the penthouse room by room, engaging Harris's men with the controlled violence of professionals. There was no hesitation, no warning shots. These were former special forces operators, not security guards.
Harris's men, outgunned and surprised, retreated toward the service entrance. Brad was the last to leave, stuffing the stolen files into his jacket as he ran.
Before ducking through the doorway, he paused, looking directly into one of the security cameras. A chill ran through me as he mouthed words clearly intended for us to see:"He'll never stop hunting you."
Then he was gone, disappearing with the others as Michael's team secured the penthouse.
I watched the systematic sweep of each room, Michael directing his team with hand signals and the occasional terse command over their comms. Even through the grainy footage, I could see the cold fury in his movements. Michael took his security responsibilities seriously—this breach was a personal failure in his eyes.
"Clear!" The call echoed from room to room as the team confirmed no threats remained.
The communication panel crackled to life. "Mr. Montgomery, the penthouse is secure," Michael's voice was formal, professional. "We're disabling the remaining explosive charges now."
"Acknowledged," I replied. "We'll remain here until you confirm it's safe."
Connor was still staring at the monitor that had shown his brother's parting threat, his expression unreadable. I wanted tosay something, to offer comfort or reassurance, but what words could possibly address the magnitude of such betrayal?
Instead, I reached for his hand, our fingers intertwining in a gesture that had become our silent language of support. Some wounds were too fresh for words, too deep for platitudes. All I could offer was my presence, my unwavering support.
Minutes passed before the security panel beside the door flashed green, indicating the exterior was secure. The locks disengaged with a soft click, and the heavy steel door slid open, revealing Michael standing at attention, his expression grim but relieved.
"Sir," he acknowledged, his eyes quickly scanning us both for injuries. "Mr. Montgomery," he added with a nod to Connor, the use of my surname for him both protocol and a subtle reminder of Connor's protected status.
Beyond Michael, the penthouse was barely recognizable. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with dust from shattered drywall and debris from the forced entry. Furniture lay overturned, glass crunched underfoot, and bullet holes pocked the walls in silent testimony to the violence that had unfolded.
I wheeled forward, Connor's hand still in mine, as we emerged from the safety of the panic room into the wreckage of what had been our home. The destruction was extensive, but it was the violation—the knowledge that Harris had reached into our sanctuary—that turned my blood cold.
This was no longer just a battle of corporate wills or legal maneuvering. Harris had made it personal, bringing the fight to my doorstep, endangering Connor in the one place he should have been safe.
And that meant the rules had changed.
I wheeled through the aftermath of the attack, navigating my chair around shattered glass and overturned furniture.
The place I'd called home for the past three years had been transformed into a war zone in minutes—bullet holes pockmarked the walls, smoke residue darkened the ceiling, and the acrid smell of explosives hung in the air.
Security personnel moved methodically through each room, checking for any remaining threats or surveillance devices, while I searched for Connor.
My collection of first-edition law books lay scattered across the study floor, some with pages torn out—deliberate destruction rather than collateral damage.
The painting my mother had given me before she died had a clean slash through the canvas. These weren't just thieves; they were sending a message.
Nothing was sacred, nothing was safe.
I found Connor standing in what remained of the living room, his shoulders slumped as he stared at the destruction around him. A floor-to-ceiling window had been shattered, letting in the cool night air and the distant sounds of city life continuing obliviously below. The contrast between the chaos in here and the normal world outside was jarring.
"I brought this into your life," Connor whispered without turning around, his voice barely audible over the activity of the security team. The defeated slump of his shoulders made something fierce and protective surge in my chest.
I wheeled over to him, maneuvering around a toppled bookshelf to reach his side. His hands were trembling slightly, and I reached out to take them in mine. They were cold, almost clammy, shock setting in despite his outward calm.
"No," I said firmly, pulling him down until our foreheads touched, an intimate connection in the midst of destruction. "You brought life into mine."
The words surprised me as much as him, but they were true. Before Connor had stumbled into my hotel room, I'd beenexisting, not living—building my empire, winning my battles, but hollow inside.
The accident had taken more than my ability to walk; it had taken my willingness to be vulnerable, to let anyone close enough to matter.
Until him.
