Chapter 34: Almost Caught

Chapter 34: Almost Caught

The progress bar on the micro-scanner crawled across the small monochrome screen with agonizing slowness. Seven percent. Eight percent. The amber glow of the security console cast long, skeletal shadows against the mahogany bookshelves of Gregory Bellweather’s private study, illuminating the sweat beading sharply along Adrian’s jawline.

"Move faster," Adrian hissed under his breath, his eyes darting from the creeping percentage bar to the heavy oak door behind him.

The silence of the west wing was absolute, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched whir of the mainframe processing the encrypted downloads. Every second felt like an hour, every microsecond stretched to a breaking point as the weight of total destruction hung over his shoulders. If Bellweather returned now, if a security guard decided to check this corridor, there would be no excuses left to hide behind. He was knee-deep in high-treason corporate espionage, stealing the very blueprints of his family’s impending ruin.

Twelve percent. Thirteen percent.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the hallway outside.

Adrian froze, his breath catching in his throat. The micro-scanner remained clutched tightly in his right hand, wired directly into Bellweather’s primary server port. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and entirely too close—were marching down the private study corridor.

"I don't care about the backup generator, find out who authorized maintenance in the west wing!" Gregory Bellweather’s voice boomed through the solid wood door, dripping with cold, aristocratic fury. "Someone deliberately tripped the main breaker!"

Panic flared hot and immediate in Adrian’s chest. The progress bar stuttered at fifteen percent. If he yanked the cable now, the file would corrupt, and he would lose the entire embezzlement ledger. If he stayed, he had less than thirty seconds before Bellweather turned the brass handle and walked right into the room.

The footsteps stopped directly outside the study door.

Adrian braced himself, his thumb hovering over the emergency disconnect button of the micro-scanner, his entire body coiled like a spring.

Before Bellweather could insert his key into the lock, a sudden, chaotic scuffle erupted further down the hallway, shattering the tense quiet of the wing.

"Unhand me, you absolute fool!" a voice cried out—unmistakably Theodore, though slurred with an exaggerated, theatrical drunkenness that was entirely fake. "Do you know who my father is? I demand a glass of champagne immediately!"

"Sir, you cannot be in this wing, this is a private residential zone—" a security guard stammered, his voice muffled by the sound of expensive fabric rustling and a heavy thud against the wood-paneled wall.

"Residential? I thought this was the powder room!" Theodore shouted back, his laughter echoing shrilly down the corridor. "Let go of my lapels before I have you fired and scrubbing toilets by midnight!"

"Get your hands off me, you drunken lunatic!" Bellweather’s voice snapped, abandoning his attempt at the study door as his attention was violently diverted toward the commotion. "Guards! Remove this arrogant brat from my estate immediately!"

"With pleasure, Mr. Bellweather," another guard barked, footsteps retreating rapidly away from the study as Theodore orchestrated a noisy, deliberate extraction down the west wing.

Inside the study, Adrian let out a long, shuddering breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Twenty-eight percent. Thirty-four percent.

"You absolute madman," Adrian whispered to the empty room, a frantic, hysterical edge to his smile as he watched the progress bar finally jump to forty-five percent.

The distraction was brilliant, but it wouldn't last. Theodore was buying him precious seconds with a physical altercation disguised as a drunken scuffle, trading his own safety to keep Bellweather entirely occupied at the other end of the mansion. But security would swarm the area within minutes, and once Bellweather realized he had been played, he would rush back to check his vault.

Fifty-two percent. Sixty-eight percent.

Adrian kept his eyes glued to the screen, his fingers twitching with the urge to rip the cable free. The numbers ticked upward with agonizing precision. Eighty percent. Eighty-five percent.

From down the hall, Bellweather’s raised voice could still be heard barking orders, though the sound was fading as Theodore successfully led the angry mogul toward the grand ballroom.

Ninety-two percent. Ninety-six percent.

"Come on, finish," Adrian muttered, pressing his palm against the floorboards as if his sheer willpower could force the data transfer to complete.

Ninety-nine percent.

D******d complete.

Without wasting a single millisecond, Adrian slapped his hand against the scanner, ripping the data cable free from the mainframe port and stuffing the small device deep into the custom inner pocket of his tailored jacket. He slammed the wall safe shut, spun the dial to scramble the combination, and hastily pushed the mediocre landscape oil painting back over the heavy metal door.

He didn't bother trying to re-lock the master study door from the inside. Instead, he darted across the Persian rug toward the set of French doors leading out into the dark, rain-slicked gardens.

The brass handle turned smoothly. Adrian shoved the glass door open, stepping out into the cool, damp night air just as a sharp rap echoed from the front of the study.

"Bellweather is returning," Adrian whispered to himself, pulling his jacket tight against the chill as he slipped into the shadows of the overgrown boxwood hedges.

The rain was falling harder now, turning the gravel pathways into slick ribbons of mud, but Adrian didn't care. He sprinted along the perimeter of the west wing, keeping low beneath the towering stone facade of the Wexford-Bellweather estate. His chest burned, his pulse thrummed in his ears, and the micro-scanner rested heavily against his ribs—a tiny, ticking bomb of corporate secrets.

He had the copy. He had the definitive proof of the multi-million-dollar embezzlement scheme. But as he rounded the corner toward the lit terrace where the panicked gala guests were slowly regaining their footing under the emergency backup generators, a cold realization settled over him.

Gregory Bellweather was going to check his vault within the hour. And when he found it empty, the war would officially begin.

Adrian adjusted the lapel of his jacket, schooling his features into a mask of calm, impassured indifference before stepping back through the terrace doors and into the dazzling, overly bright lights of the ballroom.

Across the room, Gregory Bellweather stood near the podium, his face flushed with unbridled rage, barking instructions into a mobile phone while his sharp, predatory eyes swept the crowd like a searchlight.

The moment Bellweather’s gaze locked onto Adrian standing near the edge of the champagne fountain, the billionaire’s expression hardened from anger into something infinitely more dangerous.

Adrian didn't look away. He raised his chin, met Bellweather’s furious stare head-on, and offered a faint, chillingly polite smile that promised absolute devastation.