Chapter Four - Cracks In The Glass
1071 Words
The rest of the luncheon passed in a blur of forced smiles and champagne flutes she barely sipped. Amara floated through the ballroom like a ghost, her red lipstick stretched into a mask of poise while her mind burned with smoke and screams. Every flashbulb outside had felt like a gunshot; every cheer, a war cry.
She’d faced hostile takeovers, lawsuits, political attacks but this was different. This was personal.
Back at the penthouse, she shut the door behind her with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the vast living room like a gunshot. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious, indifferent.
Amara kicked off her heels and dropped onto the leather sofa, dragging her hands over her face. Her lungs still felt coated with a thin film of chemical burn, though she’d insisted she was fine. She hated herself for the tremor in her hands, for the crack in her iron facade.
“You shouldn’t bottle it.”
She jerked her head up. Cole stood in the doorway, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked far too at ease for a man who had wrestled down an attacker less than six hours ago.
“Bottle what?” she said coolly.
“The fear,” he replied. He walked into the room with that silent prowl that made her feel both unsettled and… safer, though she refused to admit it. “If you don’t let it out, it’ll find a way to eat you alive.”
“I don’t need a therapist, Mr. Maddox.”
“Good,” he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite her. “Because I’m not one. I’m the guy who makes sure you live long enough to book one if you want.”
Her lips twitched despite herself, irritation and reluctant amusement clashing. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Always blunt. Always pushing.”
“Blunt saves time.” He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “You nearly died today, Amara. That’s not a PR spin. That’s fact. And it’s going to happen again if we don’t get ahead of it.”
Amara’s throat tightened. She looked away, out at the glittering skyline. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
For a long moment, silence filled the space between them. Then Cole’s voice dropped, softer, almost unexpected. “What you pulled today, walking into that luncheon after the attack that took guts. But guts don’t keep you alive. Strategy does.”
Her gaze snapped back to him. “And you think I don’t have strategy? My entire life has been strategy. Every smile at that luncheon was a calculation. Every handshake, a power move. I can’t afford weakness.”
“You can’t afford isolation, either,” he countered.
The words landed heavier than she wanted them to. She felt them settle deep in the hollow place inside her chest, the place she’d kept locked since the day her father’s casket disappeared beneath a sea of roses.
Amara swallowed hard and stood, desperate to move, to regain the high ground. “Do what you have to do, Mr. Maddox. Sweep the building. Tear it apart if you must. Just give me answers.”
Cole rose too, his presence filling the room like an unspoken command. “I’ll start with your staff. The bug in your office wasn’t placed by a ghost it was someone who had access. Someone close.”
The implication made her skin prickle. She wrapped her arms around herself, though the room wasn’t cold. “I don’t want to believe that.”
“Belief doesn’t change facts.” His voice was steady, unyielding. “I’ll find them.”
The next hours were a blur of controlled chaos. Cole moved through the penthouse like a man on a mission, sweeping rooms with compact devices she didn’t recognize, checking vents, frames, even light fixtures.
Amara retreated to her office, though the space felt tainted now, the memory of the hidden bug gnawing at her. She tried to focus on numbers, on contracts, on the steady rhythm of financial reports. But the words blurred, meaningless.
Her phone buzzed Elena, her PR manager, texting updates about the media spin from the luncheon chaos. “We’re framing it as a freak protest gone wrong. Sympathy for you is high. Coverage favorable. You looked strong, composed. Perfect optics.”
Amara’s lips pressed into a thin line. Optics. Always optics. Never the truth.
Her mind drifted back to the moment outside The Corinthian. The hand on her arm, the press of Cole’s body shielding her from the world. For a terrifying second, she had felt… safe.
She shoved the thought away like a dangerous weakness.
By late evening, Cole reappeared, his shirt collar unbuttoned, the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. He carried a thin folder.
“Find something?” she asked, forcing her voice into businesslike coolness.
“More than something.” He dropped the folder onto her desk. Inside were printed security stills, grainy but clear enough to sting.
The man who’d released the gas canister.
Amara leaned forward, heart pounding. “Who is he?”
“Name’s Daniel Kross. Small-time enforcer, tied to half a dozen shady security firms.” Cole’s eyes locked with hers. “But here’s the kicker—his last legit paycheck came from Vance International. Three months ago.”
Her blood ran cold. “That’s not possible.”
“Payroll doesn’t lie.”
Her fingers curled into the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Someone inside her company, her family’s company, had hired a thug who tried to gas her in the middle of Manhattan.
The room tilted.
“Amara,” Cole said quietly, but firmly, anchoring her back. “This isn’t over. Whoever signed that paycheck is the one who opened the door for him. And they’re still inside your walls.”
She lifted her gaze to his, and for the first time, she didn’t see just a hired guard. She saw the one man willing to stand between her and the abyss even if it meant tearing her empire apart piece by piece.
The thought terrified her more than the smoke had.
Amara whispered, more to herself than to him, “If my enemies are inside Vance International, then I don’t know who I can trust.”
Cole’s answer was immediate, unflinching. “Then trust me.”
- Writer
