Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Glass House

The metallic scent of fresh blood hung heavy in the high-ceilinged atrium of the Marchetti estate. Outside, the night skyline of Chicago glowed like distant embers through the floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside, the air felt suffocatingly dense.

Maeve felt the cold glass of the wall pressing through the thin silk of her dress. Her lungs burned as she tried to maintain a steady breath under Elias’s suffocating scrutiny. His hand remained suspended near her face, warm despite the chill that had swept over her skin.

"Answer me," Elias repeated. His tone wasn't raised, but it carried the weight of an executioner's gavel.

"I'm... I'm your wife," Maeve stammered, the lie tasting like ash on her tongue. "I am Sienna Ashford. I stayed because... because I promised I would."

Elias chuckled—a low, humorless sound that sent a shiver straight down her spine. He stepped back slightly, though his gaze never left her. "Sienna Ashford is a coward who runs at the first sign of rain. She cries when she smudges her makeup. You didn't flinch when those men shattered my doors, and you didn't run when they aimed two pistols at your chest."

He walked over to one of the fallen hitmen, casually nudging the man's weapon away with the toe of his leather shoe. He bent down, searched the tactical vest, and pulled out a small, encrypted radio.

"They didn't come to kill a man in a wheelchair," Elias said, tossing the radio onto a side table. "They came because someone inside the Ashford inner circle told them I was defenseless tonight. Someone thought I was a sitting duck."

Maeve’s heart dropped. Margaret Ashford had pushed for this marriage with terrifying urgency, claiming it was the only way to solidify their family alliance after Elias's accident. But if the Ashfords knew Elias was targeted—if they were actively feeding information to his enemies—then she wasn't just a fake bride; she was an unwitting decoy meant to die in the crossfire.

Before she could process the thought, the heavy double doors were pushed open again. This time, six men in sharp black suits poured into the room, led by a tall, gray-haired man with an eye patch and a cold demeanor. This was Mateo, Elias’s long-time lieutenant and right-hand strategist.

Mateo took in the scene—the two dead hitmen, the bloody knife in Elias’s hand, and the terrified woman cowering against the glass wall—without batting an eye.

"Clean this up," Elias ordered coldly, wiping his blade with a handkerchief he pulled from his breast pocket. "And get the car ready. We're moving to the safehouse in Lake Forest."

"Boss," Mateo said, bowing his head slightly. "What about her?"

Elias glanced back at Maeve. Her hair was disheveled, her dress stained with a light splash of blood near the hem, and her hands were still trembling uncontrollably. Yet, beneath the obvious terror in her eyes, there was no deceit—only the raw, desperate survival instinct of a cornered animal.

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"She comes with us," Elias commanded. "If the Ashfords gave us a lion wrapped in silk, I want to see how long she lasts before she reveals her claws."

Two guards stepped forward to escort Maeve. As they led her out into the crisp, rain-slicked Chicago night, she looked back one last time. Elias was standing in the middle of the ruined room, the black wheelchair forgotten behind him, looking like a king who had just reclaimed his throne from the depths of hell.