Guns and Grandmothers Ring
Victoria's smile didn't reach her eyes, and the man beside her had a gun.
Not pointed at us—not yet—but visible enough in the shoulder holster beneath his open jacket that the threat landed like a fist to my sternum. My grandmother's ring suddenly felt too tight on my finger.
"Leaving so soon?" Victoria stepped into the office, heels clicking against marble. "And here I thought we were just getting reacquainted."
Callum moved in front of me. Subtle. Just a half-step that put his body between mine and the door.
"Marcus." His voice stayed level. "Didn't expect to see you here."
So this was Marcus Chen. Shorter than I'd imagined, maybe five-eight, with the kind of forgettable face that made him dangerous—the type who could follow you for three days and you'd never notice. He wore a gray suit that probably cost more than my rent, and when he smiled, his teeth were too white.
"Mr. Hargrave." Marcus's accent was American, West Coast maybe. "Ms. Mercer. Pleasure."
"Is it?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
Victoria laughed. Actually laughed, like I'd told a joke at a dinner party instead of standing in her office with stolen files and a man who'd been stalking me.
"Oh, I like her." She moved to her desk, trailing one finger along the edge where Callum had scattered the remaining folders. "She's got spine. More than her mother, certainly."
My nails bit into my palms.
"Careful, Victoria." Callum's tone could have frozen water.
"Or what, darling?" She picked up one of the files, flipped it open. "You'll tell her the truth? About why you're really here? About what you and Evelyn—"
"We're leaving." Callum grabbed my wrist.
Marcus shifted. Not much. Just enough that his jacket fell open wider, and the gun became impossible to ignore.
"I don't think so." Victoria closed the file with a soft snap. "You see, you've taken something that belongs to me. And I'm afraid I can't let that stand."
The office suddenly felt smaller. My pulse hammered against my throat, and I could smell Callum's cologne—cedar and something darker—mixed with the faint scent of chlorine still clinging to his clothes from the pool.
"The files are about my mother." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "They belong to us."
"Do they?" Victoria tilted her head. "Tell me, Sloane—may I call you Sloane?—what do you know about your mother's business dealings seven years ago?"
"Enough."
"I doubt that." She moved around the desk, perched on the edge. "Did she tell you about the Singapore contract? The one worth forty million that she stole from under my nose?"
"Evelyn didn't steal anything." Callum's grip on my wrist tightened. "She won the bid fairly."
"Fairly." Victoria's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Is that what she told you? While you were fucking her in that hotel room in Bangkok?"
The air left my lungs.
Callum went rigid beside me, and I felt the exact moment his careful control cracked—just a hairline fracture, but enough that I could see through to something raw underneath.
"That's what I thought." Victoria's smile turned predatory. "You didn't tell her. How sweet. Protecting Evelyn's reputation even now."
"Shut up." The words came out before I could stop them.
"Or what, sweetheart? You'll glare at me? Please." She stood, smoothed her skirt. "Your mother is a liar and a thief. She took that contract using insider information she got from Callum, then disappeared for six months. And when she came back—"
"That's enough." Callum's voice cut through the room like a blade.
But Victoria wasn't finished. "When she came back, she was different. Thinner. Quieter. Almost like she'd lost something precious." Her gaze slid to me. "Or someone."
My stomach dropped.
No. No, that wasn't—
"Marcus." Victoria's tone shifted, became businesslike. "Show them out. And make sure they understand that if those files leave this building, there will be consequences."
Marcus moved toward us. Callum pulled me back, putting more distance between us and the gun that still wasn't pointed at us but might as well have been.
"You're making a mistake," Callum said.
"Am I?" Victoria examined her nails. "I don't think so. You see, I've been very patient. Watching. Waiting. Collecting information. And now I have everything I need to destroy Evelyn Mercer's reputation, her business, and—" She looked at me. "—her daughter's future."
"Why?" The question burst out of me. "What did she do to you that's worth all this?"
For the first time, something flickered across Victoria's face. Something that might have been pain if she were capable of feeling it.
"She took what was mine." Her voice went quiet. Dangerous. "And now I'm going to take what's hers."
Marcus escorted us to the elevator. Not touching, not threatening, just there—a presence at our backs that made my shoulder blades itch.
Callum still had the files tucked inside his jacket. Victoria had let us keep them, which somehow made everything worse. Like she wanted us to read them. Wanted us to know.
The elevator doors closed, and I counted to five before I spoke.
"Bangkok."
"Sloane—"
"You fucked my mother in Bangkok seven years ago." My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "And then she came back and—what? Had a breakdown?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" I turned to face him, and the elevator suddenly felt too small, too close. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been lying to me since the moment we met."
The elevator descended. Thirty-fourth floor. Thirty-third.
"I was going to tell you." Callum's jaw was tight. "After we got somewhere safe."
"Safe." I laughed, and it came out bitter. "We're not safe. Marcus Chen has been following me for three days, your ex-wife has files on my mother that apparently include details about your affair, and you—" I jabbed a finger at his chest. "—you've been playing some kind of long game that I don't understand."
"It's not a game."
"Then what is it?"
Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-seventh.
Callum ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked uncertain. Vulnerable. Like the careful mask he wore had finally cracked wide enough that I could see the man underneath.
"I loved her," he said quietly. "I still do."
The elevator lurched. Or maybe that was just my stomach.
"You—what?"
"Seven years ago, I met your mother at a conference in Singapore. She was brilliant. Sharp. Funny in this dry, unexpected way that caught me off guard." He stared at the elevator doors like they held answers. "We started talking. One conversation became two, then dinner, then—"
"I don't need the details."
"Yes, you do." He looked at me then, and his eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them. "Because you need to understand that what happened between us wasn't some casual affair. It was—" He stopped. Started again. "She was married to your father. Unhappily, but married. And I was married to Victoria. Also unhappily. And for three months, we—"
The elevator stopped. Fifteenth floor.
The doors didn't open.
Callum hit the button. Nothing happened.
"Shit." He pulled out his phone. No signal.
My heart started hammering. "Did Victoria—"
"Yes." He was already moving, prying at the emergency panel. "She's not going to let us leave with those files."
"But she said—"
"She lied." He got the panel open, reached for the emergency phone. Dead. "Of course it's dead."
The elevator groaned. A metallic sound that raised every hair on my arms.
"Callum."
"I know." He was scanning the ceiling now, looking for—what? An escape hatch? "There should be a—there."
He jumped, caught the edge of the ceiling panel, and pulled. It came loose with a screech that made my teeth ache.
"You're not serious."
"Can you think of a better option?" He pulled himself up with the kind of upper body strength that would have been impressive if we weren't trapped in an elevator that might plummet fifteen floors at any second.
Another groan. The elevator shifted, dropped an inch.
I didn't think. Just grabbed his extended hand and let him haul me up through the opening.
The elevator shaft was dark. Cables hung like industrial veins, and somewhere far above, I could hear machinery humming. The smell of grease and metal filled my nose.
"There's a ladder." Callum pointed to the wall. "We climb to the next floor, pry open the doors."
"You're insane."
"Probably." He was already moving, testing the ladder. "But unless you want to wait for Victoria to decide whether to drop us or just leave us here until we suffocate, I suggest you follow me."
The elevator dropped another inch.
I followed him.
The ladder was older than it should have been, rust flaking off under my hands. My arms burned by the time we reached the fourteenth-floor doors, and my legs were shaking so badly I had to lock my knees to stay upright.
Callum wedged his fingers into the crack between the doors and pulled. Nothing.
"Help me."
I grabbed the other side. We pulled together, and slowly—so slowly—the doors began to separate.
Light spilled through the gap. Voices. Someone was in the hallway.
"—don't care what she said, we need to—"
The voice cut off as the doors opened wide enough for us to see through.
Marcus Chen stood in the hallway, phone to his ear. He saw us at the same moment we saw him.
For one frozen second, nobody moved.
Then Marcus reached for his gun, and Callum shoved me through the gap so hard I stumbled, hit the hallway floor on my hands and knees. My grandmother's ring scraped against marble.
Callum came through after me, grabbed my arm, hauled me up.
"Run."
We ran.
Behind us, Marcus shouted something. Footsteps pounded. The hallway stretched ahead, endless doors on either side, and I had no idea where we were going, just that we had to move, had to—
Callum yanked me left, through a door marked STAIRS.
We took them two at a time, my lungs burning, his hand still locked around my wrist like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
Tenth floor. Ninth. Eighth.
"Where are we going?" I gasped.
"Parking garage. My car."
"He'll follow us."
"I know."
Seventh floor. Sixth.
The stairwell door above us crashed open. Marcus's footsteps echoed down.
"Faster." Callum's voice was tight.
Fifth floor. Fourth.
My legs were screaming. The files in Callum's jacket rustled with each step, a reminder of why we were running, what we'd taken, what Victoria wanted back badly enough to trap us in an elevator and send an armed man after us.
Third floor. Second.
"Almost there." Callum's breathing was labored now too.
Ground floor. He hit the door, and we burst into the parking garage.
Concrete and shadows and the smell of exhaust. His car was—where? I couldn't see it, couldn't see anything except rows of vehicles and support pillars and—
"There." He pointed.
A black Mercedes, sleek and expensive and so perfectly Callum that I almost laughed.
We ran for it. He had the keys out, hit the unlock button.
The car chirped.
Behind us, the stairwell door opened.
We were ten feet away. Five.
"Get in!" Callum threw himself into the driver's seat.
I grabbed the passenger door handle, yanked it open, threw myself inside.
The engine roared to life.
Marcus stepped out from behind a pillar, gun raised.
"Drive!" I screamed.
Callum floored it.
The car shot forward. Marcus dove aside. We careened past him, tires squealing, and I twisted in my seat to see him rolling to his feet, raising the gun again—
The rear window exploded.
Glass rained down on the back seat. I screamed, ducked, and Callum took a corner so fast the car tilted on two wheels.
"Stay down!"
Another shot. This one hit the trunk with a metallic thunk.
Then we were out, bursting from the parking garage into daylight, and Callum was weaving through traffic like he'd done this before, like running from armed men was just another Tuesday.
My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.
"Are you hurt?" Callum's eyes flicked to me, then back to the road.
"No. I don't—no." I couldn't catch my breath. "He shot at us. He actually shot at us."
"I know."
"Victoria tried to kill us."
"I know."
"And you—you and my mother—" The words tangled in my throat.
Callum took another turn, checking the rearview mirror. "We need to get somewhere safe. Then we'll talk."
"Where's safe?" My voice came out too high. "Your ex-wife just tried to murder us, and apparently my mother is—what? Your ex-lover? Your—"
"Sloane." He reached over, grabbed my hand. His palm was warm, solid. "Breathe."
I breathed.
"We're going to figure this out," he said. "I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't."
Something in his voice made me look at him. Really look. His jaw was set, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, and there was a cut on his cheek from the broken glass that he hadn't even noticed.
"Why are you doing this?" The question came out quieter than I intended. "If you love my mother, why are you helping me?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because she asked me to."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"Three weeks ago, your mother called me. First time we'd spoken in seven years." He took a breath. "She said Victoria was coming after her. After you. She said she needed help, and I was the only person she could trust."
"So this whole thing—meeting me, the gala, everything—it was all—"
"Planned. Yes." He glanced at me. "But not the way you think."
"Then how?"
"She asked me to protect you. To keep you safe while she figured out what Victoria wanted." His grip on my hand tightened. "She didn't tell me about Marcus. Didn't tell me how bad it had gotten. If I'd known—"
"You would have what? Ridden in on a white horse and saved us both?"
"Yes."
The simple certainty in his voice stole my breath.
We drove in silence for a while. The city blurred past, buildings and people and traffic lights, and I tried to process everything that had happened in the last hour. The files. Victoria's revelations. The elevator. Marcus and his gun.
Callum and my mother.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked.
"My place. It's secure."
"How secure?"
"Secure enough." He took another turn, and I realized we were heading toward the waterfront. "I need to read those files. Figure out what Victoria knows and what she's planning."
"And then?"
"Then we call your mother and tell her everything."
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, and my blood went cold.
Unknown number. Text message.
I opened it.
A photo. My mother, walking into her office building. Taken this morning, judging by the clothes.
Below it: "Tell Callum he can't protect both of you."
I showed him the phone.
His face went white. "When did you get this?"
"Just now."
"Shit." He grabbed his own phone, dialed. "Evelyn. Pick up. Pick up, damn it."
It went to voicemail.
He tried again. Same result.
"She's not answering." His voice was tight.
"Maybe she's in a meeting."
"She always answers when I call." He was already turning the car around. "Always."
"What are you doing?"
"Going to her office."
"Callum, that's—"
"I don't care." His jaw was set. "If something happens to her because I was too slow, because I didn't—"
My phone buzzed again.
Another photo. This one showed my mother's office. Empty desk. Overturned chair.
And on the floor, barely visible in the corner of the frame: a dark stain that might have been coffee.
Or might have been blood.
The message below read: "Too late."