The Penthouse Trap
953 Words
Heat slammed into me without warning. One second, I was standing beneath the glittering chandeliers, staring into Bryan Nimrod's unreadable eyes. The next, the ballroom lurched violently. The crystal glasses. The laughing guests. The golden lights. Everything twisted into a dizzying blur.
My fingers loosened around the champagne flute. It slipped from my grasp.
Crash.
The sharp sound echoed across the ballroom. I staggered, catching the edge of a nearby table before my knees gave out.
My pulse pounded wildly inside my ears. Something was wrong. Very wrong. A strange fire spread through my veins, racing beneath my skin until every breath felt too hot to hold. The realization struck me like lightning.
Chloe hadn't wanted to humiliate me. She wanted to destroy me.
"You don't look so well, Laura."
Her voice floated toward me through the ringing in my ears. I forced my head up. She stood only a few feet away, concern painted perfectly across her face for the cameras.
Only her eyes betrayed the truth. They glittered with cruel satisfaction.
"I think you've had too much to drink," she announced loudly. Several guests turned. Whispers rippled through the room.
"Oh, dear..."
"Is she drunk?"
"What a disgrace..."
"I heard she couldn't accept losing the company."
Chloe stepped closer until her lips nearly brushed my ear.
"By morning," she whispered, "every headline will call you a drunken lunatic."
My nails dug into my palms.
"You..."
I barely recognised my own voice.
"What... did... you..."
She smiled.
"Security."
Two guards immediately pushed through the crowd.
"Miss Sanders isn't feeling well," Chloe said sweetly. "Please escort her outside before she embarrasses herself further."
Outside. Where no cameras would see. Where nobody would ask questions. Where accidents happened.
I tried to move. My legs refused. Cold fear settled beneath the blazing heat consuming my body.
Not here. I couldn't die here. A shadow fell over me. The murmurs around us vanished. Someone stepped between me and the approaching guards. A deep, controlled voice broke the silence.
"Move."
One word. Nothing more. The guards stopped instantly. I looked up through blurred vision.
Bryan Nimrod.
He removed his tailored jacket in one smooth movement and draped it around my shoulders.
Warmth.
The expensive fabric carried the faint scent of cedarwood and rain. Before I could protest, one powerful arm slipped beneath my knees while the other supported my back. The floor disappeared. He had lifted me effortlessly. A chorus of gasps erupted behind us.
"What is Bryan doing?"
"Does he know her?"
Richard hurried forward.
"Mr. Nimrod!"
Bryan didn't even glance at him.
"My niece is unstable," Richard said quickly. "She's under investigation for corporate sabotage. Please hand her over."
Bryan kept walking. Each measured step echoed across the silent ballroom.
"I know exactly who she is."
Richard swallowed.
"You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
Bryan finally stopped. Without turning around, he spoke calmly.
"I also understand why your Cayman Islands accounts were emptied forty-three minutes ago."
Silence.
"You've been laundering Linwood assets through shell corporations for years."
Richard's breathing hitched.
"My legal department has already frozen everything."
A champagne glass shattered somewhere behind us. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared. Bryan resumed walking.
The private elevator doors slid open before we reached them. The bodyguards held the entrance. He carried me inside. The doors closed. The ballroom disappeared. Only the soft hum of the elevator remained.
I struggled to focus. The numbers above the door climbed higher.
Penthouse.
Private access. Safe. Or was it?
"Why?" I whispered.
Bryan stood perfectly still, his arms steady beneath me.
"What?"
"Why... help me?"
For the first time, he looked directly into my eyes.
"I'm not helping you."
His voice remained calm.
"I'm protecting evidence."
I frowned.
"You exposed information my investigators have been chasing for months."
The elevator continued upward.
"I need you alive."
Alive.
The word should have comforted me. Instead, another wave of unbearable heat crashed through me. No. Not now. Not in front of him.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto an enormous penthouse wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights stretched endlessly beyond the windows. Bryan carried me inside. The doors locked behind us. He lowered me carefully onto a leather sofa.
"I'll call my physician."
He reached into his pocket. Panic exploded inside me.
"No!"
My hand shot forward before I could think. I caught his wrist. His skin felt cool against my burning fingers. He stopped and our eyes met.
"I can't..."
Each breath became harder than the last.
"No hospitals."
My voice shook.
"No doctors."
"If anyone finds me..." my throat tightened, "...they'll finish what they started."
He studied me in silence. Not my face. My pupils. My trembling hands. The untouched champagne stain on my dress. His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"You weren't drunk."
I couldn't answer. His jaw hardened.
"You've been drugged."
The room tilted again. My vision blurred. Every nerve in my body screamed. Bryan pulled his phone from his pocket.
"I'm calling emergency medical services."
"No!"
I tightened my grip with surprising strength.
"They'll ask questions."
"I don't care."
"I do."
Our eyes locked. For several long seconds neither of us spoke. Then, a sharp vibration broke the silence. Bryan looked at his phone. His screen lit up.
Unknown Number. He answered.
"What?"
There was a pause. His expression darkened.
"What did you say?"
There was silence.
"I'll be there immediately."
He ended the call.
Before I could ask what had happened, another wave of dizziness swept over me. Bryan looked from the phone, then back to me. For the first time since we'd met, I saw uncertainty in his eyes. Then he spoke four words that turned the blood in my veins to ice.
"They want you dead."
- Writer
