Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the House
“Grant,” Adrian said again, his voice cutting through the stunned silence like a razor.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Have security escort our guests to their vehicles. Make sure their drivers have the property gates opened immediately.”
Caroline’s face drained of all color. “Adrian, you can’t do this! My father is on the city council—he’ll make sure your docks are audited until—”
“Your father owns three warehouses on Delaware Avenue,” Adrian interrupted softly, stepping back and standing beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “If he opens his mouth about audits, I’ll foreclose on his mortgages by midnight. Grant, escort them out.”
Grant didn't hesitate. He gestured toward the double doors, where four of Adrian’s largest security guards in dark suits had already materialized, their expressions like carved granite.
“Ladies,” Grant said, his tone flat and professional. “The front entrance is this way.”
For a moment, none of them moved. They stood paralyzed between shock, fury, and absolute disbelief. Vanessa looked like she wanted to scream; Melissa looked like she was going to cry; Caroline stared at Adrian with a look of pure, venomous hatred.
Then, realizing the terrifying magnitude of their mistake, they turned.
The sound of their expensive heels clicking against the marble floor was fast, panicked, and desperate. One by one, they marched out of the gallery, their million-dollar selections abandoned on tables and display cases, fleeing a house they had tried to conquer and failed to understand.
When the heavy oak doors finally slammed shut behind the last of them, the gallery felt instantly lighter.
The air smelled cleaner, stripped of the heavy, suffocating perfume and the greedy calculations that had polluted it all evening.
I stood there in my plain black staff dress, still holding the cheap wooden frame against my apron.
Adrian turned to face me fully. At six-foot-three, he towered over me, but the terrifying aura that usually made strong men tremble had vanished, replaced by an intense, burning focus.
“You’re holding my childhood,” he said softly.
“It’s a terrible frame,” I replied, offering a small, quiet smile. “The wood is warped, and the glass is crooked.”
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“I know,” Adrian said. “Maeve built it out of a packing crate behind the docks in 1978. It was the only thing my father couldn't break.”
He reached out, his warm fingers brushing against my knuckles as he took the frame from my hands. He didn't set it down on a table; he held it against his chest, right over his heart, just as I had done in the hallway.
