across Vivian’s face.
“Hold fire,” I ordered softly. I stepped forward, stepping into the harsh fluorescent light. “Vivian. It’s over.”
“It’s never over!” Vivian shrieked, her eyes wild, her elaborate hair coming undone in ragged silver strands. “Bring the babies down here! Place their hands on the scanner! I built this family! I demand the vault!”
“The FBI is upstairs, Vivian,” I said, my voice echoing off the concrete. “Graham is in cuffs. Marcus is tied up in the snow. Your empire is gone. Harrington Luxe is mine. This house is mine. You have nothing.”
“I have the key!” she cried, yanking Celeste’s hair. Celeste gasped in pain.
“No, you have a hostage,” I corrected, my voice turning to ice. “And you have one chance to survive the next ten seconds. Look at the men behind me, Vivian. These aren’t police. They are mercenaries on my payroll. If you press
that blade one millimeter deeper into my sister’s neck, they won’t arrest you. They will dismantle you.”
Vivian stared at me. She searched my face for a bluff, for the weak, timid designer she thought she had manipulated. She found nothing but the absolute, crushing weight of a billionaire who had orchestrated her total annihilation.
Vivian’s hand began to shake. The scalpel trembled against Celeste’s skin.
“You’re a Harrington,” Vivian whispered, tears of utter defeat spilling over her mascara. “You have the ice in your veins. Not Graham. You.”
“I’m a Vale,” I corrected her. “Drop the knife.”
For a long, agonizing moment, the hum of the servers was the only sound in the bunker.
Then, Vivian’s fingers opened. The scalpel clattered loudly against the sterile floor.
She collapsed to her knees, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The matriarch was broken.
My operatives swarmed the room, pinning
