Chapter 16 - The Race Against Time
"If you touch a single hair on her head," I snarled, lunging forward and grabbing the top of the car door with enough force to rattle its frame, "I will personally rip apart every remaining asset you have, hunt you down to the ends of the earth, and ensure you spend the rest of your natural life rotting in a maximum-security prison."
Patricia didn't even flinch. She simply took another unhurried sip of her drink, looking up at me with amusement dancing in her cold eyes.
"Threats, threats, threats," she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Such a dramatic girl. Just like your mother before she finally learned to keep her mouth shut. You see, Eleanor, you always thought you were the smartest person in the room. But you underestimated my desperation."
"What do you want?" I demanded, forcing my voice to stay level despite the sheer panic clawing at my throat. My daughter. My six-year-old Lily—the little girl who had run out onto the stage to hug me just days ago—was a hostage. The thought made me want to tear the car apart with my bare hands.
Patricia set her glass down on the console, leaning forward until her face was inches from the open window, her expression hardening into pure venom.
"I want everything," she whispered. "I want every share of Whitmore-Davis Holdings transferred into an unlisted Cayman Islands trust under my control. I want your signature on the corporate dissolution papers for the Lily Foundation. And I want you, Eleanor, to walk out onto the steps of this building tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, announce your permanent resignation from the corporate world, and walk away with nothing—just like you did five years ago when you arrived at Margaret’s door in faded clothes."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, my knuckles white against the metal door frame.
Patricia smiled coldly. "Then little Lily takes a very long, permanent vacation. And you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been."
Before I could reply, Patricia tapped the driver’s partition. The tinted window zipped up with a sharp mechanical hiss, and the black town car surged forward, tires screeching against the polished concrete as it sped toward the exit ramp and vanished into the Boston night.
I didn't waste a single second standing there. I spun on my heel, pulled my phone from my blazer pocket, and dialed a number that bypassed all standard corporate protocols.
"Grandmother," I said the instant the line connected.
"I saw the feed, Eleanor," Grandmother Margaret’s voice came through the speaker—not panicked, but cold, sharp, and dripping with lethal intent. Her tone sounded like ice grinding against steel. "The estate security team has already locked down the perimeter. The man holding Lily has local tactical gear, but he’s a freelance mercenary—not a professional detail. He’s sloppy."
"Where is he?" I demanded, sprinting toward my armored Mercedes, unlocking the doors with a frantic click of my fob.
"He hasn't left the property," Margaret replied calmly. "He thinks he has the upper hand because he’s holding a child. He doesn't realize that the estate was built with panic rooms and biometric locking mechanisms designed during the Cold War. Lily pressed the panic button in the hallway before he could grab her. She’s locked inside the reinforced library vault on the east wing. The mercenary is trapped in the hallway outside with no way in."
Relief washed over me so violently my knees nearly buckled. My daughter was smart. She had remembered the safety drills we practiced like a game every Sunday.
"Hold the lockdown," I commanded, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. The engine roared to life with a low, guttural growl. "Don't let him escape. I’m five minutes away."
"Don't do anything reckless, Eleanor," Margaret warned, a rare hint of maternal anxiety slipping through her iron facade. "Let the professionals handle the extraction."
"No," I replied, shifting the car into gear as the automated garage gate lifted. "This ends tonight. Patricia thinks she can break me by touching my family. I’m going to show her what happens when you corner a Whitmore."
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The Mercedes tore out of the underground garage and rocketed into the rain-slicked streets of Boston, cutting through traffic like a missile. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers throbbed. The rain blurred the neon lights of the city into streaks of red and white, but my vision remained laser-focused on a single destination: home.
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