Chapter 7 - THE EMERGENCY STAIRWELL
The heavy fire door of the stairwell slammed shut behind us with a loud, metallic echo that reverberated up the concrete shaft like a gunshot.
I stumbled on the first metal step, my ankle twisting slightly, but Julian’s grip on my arm was ironclad, hauling me upward before I could even catch my breath.
"Keep moving!" Julian ordered, taking two stairs at a time, his breathing heavy but steady. "The stairwell exits into the alley behind the kitchen. My car is parked three spaces down."
"We can't just run!" I gasped, clutching the manila folder I had managed to snatch from the table before Julian tackled Marcus. "Your entire company—everything your family built—they’re taking it!"
"Let them take it," Julian snapped, throwing his weight against the second-floor heavy steel exit door.
It popped open with a loud screech, flooding the stairwell with the cool, damp night air of downtown Manhattan.
The alleyway was narrow, slick with a light autumn drizzle, and completely empty except for a sleek black sedan idling by the back loading bay with its hazard lights blinking in a slow, rhythmic pulse.
We burst out into the alley, the rain hitting my face like tiny needles.
I expected Marcus to pursue us immediately, but the stairwell behind us remained silent, save for the distant, muffled clatter of fallen file boxes echoing up through the concrete core.
Julian pulled me toward the idling sedan, hitting the key fob in his hand.
The rear door clicked open instantly.
"Get in," he commanded, opening the door wider and shielding my head with his hand as I scrambled into the leather-lined interior.
Instead of getting into the driver’s seat, however, Julian stopped, his eyes fixed on the front passenger window of the car.
The window rolled down smoothly from the inside.
Sitting in the front seat, wearing a simple wool coat and holding a weathered leather travel bag across her lap, was a woman with dark hair threaded with silver, looking older and paler than the photograph in the watch, but carrying the exact same fierce, unmistakable gaze I saw every morning in my own mirror.
"Hello, Julian," my mother said, her voice weak, raspy, but remarkably steady. "You always were terrible at hiding your corporate assets in the basement."
I froze in the center of the leather seat, the manila folder clutched against my chest like a shield.
Julian didn't look shocked.
He didn't look angry.
He slowly let out a long, shuddering breath, walked around the car, and slid into the driver’s seat beside her without saying a word.
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He simply reached across the console, placed his hand over hers—gently, the way a younger brother touches an older sister after a very long war—and turned the ignition.
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