Behind her, four men in tactical gear, faces blank, hands resting on holstered weapons. Mercenaries. The kind you hire when you need violence done and don't want questions asked.
Helena reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, surveying the scene with a mild expression of distaste, like we're an inconvenience. A mess someone forgot to clean up.
“Alexander.” She says my name the way she'd greet a disappointing employee. “You're awake. Good. I was beginning to think they'd hit you too hard.”
I don't respond. I watch her move closer, her perfume reaching me before she does. Chanel No. 5. The same scent she's worn my entire life. It used to mean comfort, safety, home.
Now it makes my stomach turn.
“Nothing to say?” She tilts her head, studying me. “That's unlike you. You've always had your father's tendency for dramatics.”
“What do you want, Helena?”
Using her name instead ofmotherlands. I see it in the slight tightening around her eyes, the brief pause before she smooths it away.
“Straight to business. I appreciate that.” She gestures to one of the mercenaries, who steps forward with a chair. She sits, crossing her legs, arranging herself like we're having tea. “I want what I'm owed, Alexander. What I've earned through thirty years of smiling at your father's mistresses and pretending not to notice the lipstick on his collar. What I deserve after building the Hammond brand from nothing while Victor took all the credit.”
“So this is about money.”
“This is about power.” Her voice sharpens. “Money is just how we keep score.”
She reaches into her bag and produces a leather folder. I can guess what's inside.
“Your shares in Hammond Industries,” she confirms, opening the folder on her lap. “Fifteen percent. Not a controlling stake, but combined with what I'm about to acquire from your father, it will be.”
“Victor will never sign anything over to you.”
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's a performance. I realize it always has been.
“Victor will do exactly what I tell him to do. Just like you will.”
“And if I refuse?”
Helena doesn't answer. She simply looks at one of the mercenaries and nods.
The man moves fast. He crosses to Logan, grabs a fistful of hair, slams his head back against the metal beam. The sound is sickening. A wet crack that echoes through the warehouse.
“Stop!” I lunge forward, forgetting my ankle. My leg buckles. I crash to my knees, agony shooting up from my foot.
The mercenary hits Logan again. And again. Each blow measured, precise. Logan doesn't scream, but he grunts with each impact.
“Stop it! Please, stop!”
After three more blows, she raises a hand. The mercenary steps back. Logan slumps against the beam, blood streaming from his nose, breathing labored.
“Mr. Parker,” Helena says calmly. “He's nothing to me. A mechanic's son who somehow attached himself to my family like a barnacle. But I understand he's important to you.” She pauses, letting that sink in. “So let me be clear, Alexander. For every minute you delay, he suffers. When I've run out of patience, he dies.”
The room starts spinning. I lean against the wall to stay upright, strain my wrists against the zip ties hard enough to draw blood.
“He has nothing to do with this.”
“He has everything to do with it. He's one of your weaknesses.” She leans forward, and what I see underneath is cold. Empty. A void where a heart should be. “You always were sentimental, Alexander. Just like your father.”
“What changed?”
“Julia.” The name comes out like venom. “Pregnant with his bastard while I'm supposed to smile and accept my settlement like a good little ex-wife.” She stands, smoothing her coat. “I'm done smiling.”
She spreads the documents on a crate. “Sign over your shares, and your friend lives. Refuse, and I'll have them break every bone in his body while you watch. Then I'll kill him anyway. I'll find your little toy, and I'll make sure she understands exactly what it means to cross me.”
