CHAPTER 7 — THE WAREHOUSE

Elena's pov

I suddenly felt hot. I dragged my feet to the bathroom and drew a hot bath. Not because I was dirty, but because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.

The water burned my skin when I got it but I didn't feel it. I sat until it turned warm, then cool, and cold, until my fingers were wrinkled. I kept seeing the phone in my hand, hearing that thin, broken voice say my name like it was drowning.

"Elena."

For three years I believed my father was dead. I mourned him. I buried him in my heart, married while grieving him, and let Marcus and his mother and his sister turn that grief into something heavy and sharp that sat in my chest every day.

And now someone had called me in his voice.

Damien, Adrian, and Roman had left because I told them to. I was proud of myself for exactly ten minutes and after that the silence hit, and the house began to feel too big again.

I got out of the bath and wrapped myself in a towel. My hair was wet against my neck and my phone was on the bed, silent.

Then it buzzed.

One message came in. No name, just a number I did not recognize.

"Come alone. 2 a.m."

Under it was an address.

My hands began to shake.

I knew that address the way you know your childhood home. It was one of my father's old warehouses. The one he loved most. The one he went to more frequently than any office, any boardroom, any house.

He used to take me there when I was small. He would sit at his big wooden desk and let me sit on the floor with my colouring books while he worked. He said that the warehouse was where he thought best. Where he felt closest to my mother. Where he could breathe.

But then again the doubt started to creep in. If this was a trap, it was a cruel one. Whoever sent it knew exactly where to hurt me.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at that message.

I should not go. I knew I should not go. I had just reclaimed my company and thrown three billionaires out of my house for trying to protect me. Going alone at 2 a.m. to an abandoned warehouse because a stranger texted me about my father who was supposed to be dead stupid and reckless. It was exactly the kind of thing Marcus always accused me of — emotional, foolish, weak.

But another part of me whispered, "What if it is him?"

What if my father was alive? What if he had been hiding for five years, waiting for me to be strong enough to find him? What if I stayed home and missed my one chance to see him again?

That thought won.

I told myself I was not going because I was weak. I was going because I needed to know. I needed to see with my own eyes if it was a lie, so I could finally stop hoping.

I dressed in a black jeans and a sweater, purposely putting on flat shoes I could run in. I put my phone in my pocket, fully charged and refused to call Damien, Adrian or Roman.

I told them to leave so I won't call them back like a child who got scared in the dark.

At 1:47 a.m., I was standing in my kitchen, keys in my hand, heart hammering so hard I could hear it.

"Don't go. Don't go. Don't go." But I was stubborn.

At 1:52 a.m., I was in my car.

At 2:00 a.m., I was driving through empty streets while the city slept. Only my headlights served as light for the road.

The warehouse looked smaller than I remembered.... Or maybe I had just grown up. The metal gates were rusted, the windows were dark and my father's name was still faintly painted on the side, peeling in the rain.

Hart.

I parked a little way off dragging my feet toward the door. At every step, my mind screamed at me to turn back.

"This is a trap. This is a trap. You know this is a trap."

But I kept walking because if there was even a one percent chance that my father was inside, I could not live with myself if I turned back.

I pushed the door open.

It smelled like dust and old wood and something else — his cologne, or my imagination. The main room was dim, lit by one flickering bulb. And there, at the far end, behind my father's desk, sat a man I had never seen before.

He was sitting in my father's chair, legs crossed, his hands folded on the desk like he owned it.

My blood went cold.

"Who are you?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Where is my father?"

The man smiled, but not kindly.

"Your father?" he said. "You really thought—"

Before he could finish, two figures stepped out of the shadows behind him.

Mrs. Sterling and Clara.

My heart stopped.

Mrs. Sterling was not in her silk dress anymore. She was in black. Her hair was pulled back tight. Her face was twisted with a hatred I had never seen before, even after three years of living with her cruelty.

Clara stood beside her, arms crossed, a cruel smile on her lips. The same smile she wore when she mocked me at dinner. Only now there was no pretending.

"You," I whispered. "You did this."

Mrs. Sterling laughed, her evil laughter resonating in the empty warehouse.

"Of course we did," she said. "Did you really think we would just sit there and watch you take everything back? While Marcus was on his knees, begging you like a dog, we were acting. We were planning. Because we know you, Elena. We know you are wicked and ungrateful."

Clara stepped forward. "We knew you would fall for it. We knew if we used your dead daddy, you would come running like the stupid, sentimental girl you are. And it worked just as we knew it would. All we needed was someone who could mimic his voice perfectly."

My hands clenched into fists. "You used my father's voice."

"We did what we had to do," Mrs. Sterling said, her voice dropping to something cold and venomous. "You made a mistake showing up here, Elena. A fatal mistake."

She walked closer, slowly, like a predator enjoying the moment.

"Five years ago, we started something with your father," she said. "And we never finished it. Tonight, we will finish what we started."

The words hit me like ice water. Five years ago was the year my father disappeared. The year everything started to fall apart.

"You—" I started, but Clara cut me off.

"Get her," she said.

Men came out of the shadows. Three big men with faces that i didn't know.

I tried to fight, kicking and scratching. I grabbed a metal rod from the floor and swung it. I had survived three years in that house. I was not going to go down quietly.

But there were too many of them. One grabbed my arm. Another grabbed my hair and yanked me back. A fist hit my stomach, and the air left my lungs. Another hit my cheek, and I tasted blood.

I fell to my knees.

Mrs. Sterling and Clara laughed. They stood there and watched as I was beaten to a pulp, as if it was entertainment. As if I was not a person.

"Finish her," Mrs. Sterling said, her voice light, like she was ordering tea. "Finish her while we watch."

Someone pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. It was Mrs. Sterling. Her hand was steady, her eyes full of glee.

I closed my eyes. I thought of my father at this desk. I thought of Damien holding my hand last night. I thought of how I had told them all to leave, and how I was going to die alone because of my pride.

And then —

The door burst open.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!"

Damien. Adrian. Roman. And behind them were so many police men flooding in like a wave.

The men who were beating me froze. One tried to run but Adrian tackled him. Roman grabbed another and Damien — Damien went straight for Mrs. Sterling.

Mrs. Sterling pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening. But the bullet went wild, hitting the ceiling, dust raining down. Damien lunged and knocked the gun from her hand. It clattered across the concrete floor.

Clara screamed followed by Mrs. Sterling. They scrambled back, shoving past the men, and disappeared into a back door I had forgotten existed. The one my father used to sneak me out through when I was a child.

"Arrest everyone!" Damien shouted, his voice raw with fury. "Arrest all of them! No one leaves!"

But Mrs. Sterling and Clara were already gone leaving only the hired men who were caught and pinned to the ground, hands cuffed behind their backs, faces in the dust.

I sat on the floor, bleeding and shaking, barely able to breathe.

Damien fell to his knees beside me. He did not care about the gun, or the police, or the men being arrested. He pulled me into his arms, so gently, like I might break if he held me too tight.

I collapsed against him sobbing into his chest. All the fear, pain, and hope I had carried into that warehouse came pouring out at once.

"I thought it was my father," I cried. "I just wanted to see him one more time."

Damien held me tighter. His whole body was shaking with rage. "I know," he whispered. "I know, Elena. I'm here. I'm here now. No one is ever going to hurt you again."

Behind him, I heard Adrian's voice, low and furious, speaking to the police. Roman was standing over the strange man, his foot on his back, his face like stone.

But all I could feel was Damien's arms around me, and the sound of his heart beating against my ear, fast and furious and alive.

He had come back. Even after I told him to leave, he had come back. For the first time that night, I felt safe, but I knew it wasn't over.

Mrs Sterling would come back.