Chapter 5 - The Infiltration of the Estate
By eleven o'clock that evening, the storm over the city had intensified into a raging tempest.
Inside Gabriel’s private quarters, Genevieve stood in front of a full-length mirror. The muddy wedding dress was gone, burned in the club’s incinerator. In its place, she wore a sharp, floor-length black silk gown provided by Gabriel’s boutique, paired with a heavy wool trench coat and sleek leather boots that protected her bandaged feet.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant knot. Her eyes, once soft and filled with grief, were now sharp, watchful, and fierce.
A knock sounded at the door, and Gabriel stepped inside. He wore a crisp dark suit, a black overcoat, and leather gloves.
He looked at her, his eyes assessing her transformation with silent approval.
“Preston’s father has already filed a missing person report with the police department,” Gabriel informed her, handing her a sleek dark smartphone. “They’re telling the press that you suffered a emotional breakdown due to the stress of your father's death and vanished before the ceremony.”
Genevieve gripped the smartphone, her jaw clenching. “They’re setting up the narrative so they can claim power of attorney over my estate while I’m 'missing.'”
“Precisely,” Gabriel said. “They have summoned the board of Hayes Logistics to the Whitmore estate in Harbor Heights for an emergency midnight meeting. Preston intends to present a forged proxy authorization signed by your 'missing' self, handing him temporary voting control over the company.”
“They won't get the chance,” Genevieve said, her tone cold and precise.
“No, they won't,” Gabriel agreed. “My men have already neutralized the private security cameras around the Whitmore perimeter. Declan is holding the gate guards in the security booth. We have twenty minutes before the local precinct responds to any alarm.”
He offered her his arm. Genevieve took it without hesitation, feeling the solid, unyielding strength beneath his sleeve.
They descended the back staircase of the club, stepping into a heavily armored black SUV parked in the underground garage. Four other dark vehicles sat lined up behind them, filled with Gabriel’s tactical security teams.
As the convoy pulled out into the wet, dark streets of the city, Genevieve pulled her father’s gold watch from her trench coat pocket. She wound the crown slowly, listening to the steady, rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the mechanical gears.
“My father bought this watch when he launched his first cargo vessel,” she said softly, watching the rain streak across the tinted window. “He told me that time was the only currency a man couldn't earn back once he spent it.”
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Gabriel looked at the gold watch in her hand, his expression softening slightly.
“Your father was right,” Gabriel said quietly. “And Preston Whitmore’s time ran out the moment he put Clara's ring on your finger.”
