My uncle’s Obessesion

The Gate Closes

Wren drove for twenty minutes before she realized Holt was following her.

The black sedan had been three cars back on the highway, but when she took the exit toward downtown, it took the same exit. When she turned onto Fifth Avenue, it turned too.

“He’s following us,” Isolde said, twisting around to look out the back window.

“I know.”

Wren’s hands gripped the wheel tighter. Her wrist was throbbing where Holt had grabbed her, the bruises darkening by the minute. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

She called Bastian’s number. He answered before it even rang twice.

“He’s following me,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“Fifth and Grand.”

“Two blocks ahead, there’s a parking structure on your right. The sign says Delancey Underground. Turn in there. Go to the third level. Leave your car in spot 347. Don’t lock it. Get out and walk to the stairwell. A black SUV will be waiting on street level. The driver’s name is Reyes. Get in and don’t talk to anyone.”

“What about Holt?”

“Let me worry about Holt.”

She hung up.

Wren took the turn hard, tires screeching slightly as she entered the parking structure. The gate lifted automatically. She drove up two levels, following signs, her eyes flicking constantly to the mirror. The black sedan was still behind her.

Third level. She found spot 347 and pulled in. Her hands were shaking so bad she had to grip the steering wheel for a second before she could move.

“Come on,” she said to Isolde.

They got out of the car and walked toward the stairwell, not running but not slow either. Behind them, Holt’s sedan was turning onto the third level, the engine getting closer.

Wren pushed through the stairwell door. They rushed down, her footsteps echoing off concrete, Isolde right behind her.

Street level. The door opened onto a side street, and there was the black SUV, idling with its hazard lights on.

The driver a man with a scarred jaw and cold eyes nodded once when he saw her. “Ms. Calloway.”

“Voss,” Wren said automatically. “My name is Voss.”

“Ms. Voss. Get in.”

They climbed into the back seat. The interior was dark leather, climate-controlled, expensive. There was a child’s booster seat already installed in the back.

Reyes pulled into traffic without rushing. Behind them, through the rear window, Wren could see Holt’s sedan emerge from the parking structure. He was looking left and right, trying to spot which direction they’d gone.

“He’s going to figure it out,” Wren said.

“No, he won’t,” Reyes said, and made a sharp left turn that sent them down a side street Wren didn’t recognize. “Mr. Calloway’s been planning this for longer than you know.”

They drove for fifteen minutes in silence. Wren watched the city pass outside the window, trying to process what was happening. An hour ago, she was watching her son blow out birthday candles. Now she was in a stranger’s car, running from her husband, following instructions from a man she’d met exactly once at her own wedding seven years ago.

The SUV pulled up to a converted loft building in Tribeca. Brick facade, no signage, just a black gate at street level.

Reyes got out and opened the door for them. “Third floor. He’s waiting.”

The elevator was old, industrial, the kind built into warehouse conversions. It creaked as they rode up. Isolde’s hand found Wren’s, and Wren squeezed it.

The doors opened directly into the loft.

It was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city lights, exposed brick, minimal furniture but everything expensive. A kitchen that looked like no one ever cooked in it. A living room with leather furniture arranged like an interior design catalog.

And Bastian Calloway standing by the window.

He was different from the wedding. Older, colder, like the years had carved something sharp out of him. He wore a dark suit even though it was past midnight. His eyes tracked from Isolde to Wren’s bruised arm to her face.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He crossed the room and took her arm without asking, examining the scratches where Odalys’s nails had dug in. His jaw tightened. “That’s my sister-in-law. She did that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know my family.” He released her arm. “There’s a room down the hall. Second door on the left. There’s a bed made up. Your son can sleep there.”

Jonah was half-asleep against Wren’s shoulder, the adrenaline of the evening finally crashing into exhaustion. She carried him down the hallway and laid him in the bed without waking him. He was still wearing his birthday suit, still had cake frosting dried on his collar.

She came back to the living room. Bastian was pouring whiskey into a glass. He didn’t ask if she wanted one. He just handed it to her.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I don’t need”

Wren sat.

Isolde was already on the couch, her face pale, her hands folded in her lap like she was trying to make herself smaller.

“My nephew called me from the party,” Bastian said. “He wanted to know if I’d seen the photographer. He was panicking about the images going public. That’s when I understood what tonight was. It wasn’t spontaneous. My sister-in-law and my nephew planned to humiliate you in front of two hundred guests. They wanted video. They wanted witnesses. They wanted you to lose control so they could use it against you in custody court.”

“Why?” Wren’s voice came out small.

“Because there’s an inheritance vote next month. Fifty-one percent of Calloway Corp comes up for decision. My brother’s side thinks they can control it if they discredit you first. If you’re painted as unstable, volatile, unfit then any custody battle becomes easier. And with you distracted fighting for your son, I’m distracted defending you instead of voting against them.”

Isolde made a small sound. “That’s insane.”

“That’s my family,” Bastian said.

He walked to a table and picked up his phone. He read something on the screen, and something in his expression shifted. Closed off. Careful.

“You need to understand something,” he said, not looking at them. “Coming here, accepting my help that makes you a liability to people who already think you’re in the way. They’re going to move faster now. They’re going to be meaner. And they’re going to use every weapon they have.”

“What kind of weapons?” Wren asked.

Before he could answer, his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen. Read the message. His jaw clenched.

“What?” Wren said.

He turned the phone toward her. A text from an unknown number with a photo attached. The photo was from the party Wren walking out with Jonah on her hip, divorce papers visible on the table behind her, Holt’s face twisted in fury in the background.

Underneath was a single line:

We should talk. C

“Who’s C?” Wren asked.

Bastian set the phone down on the counter. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was different. Colder. Like something inside him had switched off.

“My ex-wife,” he said. “And that message means this just got a lot more complicated.”