Chapter 13 - Blood in the Glass Sky
The floor beneath Clara's feet dropped six inches as the elevator's primary cable brakes released. A warning siren began to wail inside the shaft.
Arthur was dropping the car.
Clara didn't scream. She threw open the ceiling escape hatch, grabbed the greasy steel support cables, and pulled herself up onto the elevator car's roof just as the counterweights shrieked. With every ounce of adrenaline left in her battered body, she leaped toward the maintenance ladder anchored to the shaft wall.
A split second later, the elevator car plummeted into the dark void beneath her, crashing miles below in a distant, thunderous roar of shattered metal.
Clara hung from the steel rung, her stitches tearing fully, hot blood trickling down her stomach. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the agony, and began to climb.
Six floors. Rung by rung. Every breath was fire. Every pull burned her muscles until they felt like molten lead.
She reached the service door for the sixtieth floor, jammed Marcus’s disruptor into the electronic lock casing, and triggered the short-circuit. The magnetic seal popped open with a sharp clack.
Clara rolled onto the plush Persian carpet of the penthouse corridor.
The room was vast, surrounded by panoramic glass overlooking the stormy city. In the center of the grand living area, under the soft glow of a designer lamp, sat an antique mahogany cradle.
Clara’s heart stopped. She took a step toward it, her boots leaving faint bloodstains on the white marble floor.
"He looks like you, you know," Arthur said.
He stepped out from the shadow of his library, holding a silver highball glass in one hand. He wore no jacket, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the cold precision of a predator in his own den.
"Step away from the cradle, Arthur," Clara said, her voice deadly quiet.
Arthur took a slow sip of his drink. "I built an empire, Clara. I control politicians, judges, the media. Did you really think a broken, penniless woman could walk into my sanctuary and take what belongs to my bloodline?"
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"He isn't your bloodline," Clara whispered, stepping forward. "He is my son."
Arthur’s face darkened, his refined veneer cracking into raw, vicious fury. "He is a Vance. And you... are nothing."
