Chapter 7
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind them with a definitive, bone-chilling thud. The sound of the automated deadbolts sliding into place echoed like a gunshot inside the confined, frost-covered space. Total darkness descended for a fraction of a second before the single halogen bulb overhead flickered to life, bathing the interior in a sickly, jaundiced yellow glow.
Julian spun around and slammed both palms against the stainless-steel interior of the door. The metal was already sub-zero, biting instantly into his skin. He pulled his hands back with a sharp hiss, blowing on his fingers to restore circulation.
"There's no emergency release latch," Julian panicked, sweeping his hands frantically along the smooth, seamless interior walls. "He lied. There’s no manual override on the inside!"
Clara remained remarkably calm, clutching the golden retriever puppy tightly against her chest to share her body heat. Her breath plumed in thick white clouds as she scanned the center of the room. Resting atop a massive block of clear ice was a heavy, silver fountain pen and a single sheet of parchment paper, glowing faintly under a UV light.
"He didn't lie about the pen, Julian," Clara said, her voice echoing hollowly off the frozen walls. "He just omitted the consequence of using it."
Julian hurried over to the block of ice, peering down at the parchment. Scrawled across the paper in spidery, elegant handwriting was the text of Amendment 9. He squinted at the bottom, where a line was drawn for their signatures. Next to the signature line was a small, glowing fingerprint scanner built directly into the ice block.
"A biometric signature pad," Julian read aloud, his voice dropping an octave. "To sign the contract releasing the trust fund, we have to press our bare thumbs against freezing-cold titanium. It’ll tear our skin off."
"Only if we use our thumbs," a muffled voice echoed from a small speaker grille embedded near the ceiling vent. Victor’s voice sounded distorted, tinny, but unmistakably smug. "Use the puppy's paw print, children. The canine DNA is already registered as a primary corporate stakeholder."
Julian whipped his head up toward the speaker grille. "You want us to press a live animal’s paw against a sub-zero titanium pad? That will freeze the pads of its feet instantly!"
"Corporate assets require sacrifice, Julian," Victor’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Two minutes remaining. The temperature in the vault is dropping another fifteen degrees. At negative thirty, the ink on the parchment will freeze solid, and the contract will self-destruct, taking your wedding license—and your legal identities—with it."
Clara stepped up to the block of ice, her eyes fixed on the silver fountain pen. She slowly lowered the puppy toward the freezing titanium plate, her hands trembling violently. The puppy whimpered, sensing the drop in temperature, and pressed its nose against Clara’s chin.
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"Clara, stop!" Julian yelled, grabbing her arm. "We can break the ice block! We can smash the scanner!"
"If you break the scanner," Victor’s voice chimed in, colder now, "the vault doors remain locked permanently. You have sixty seconds to choose between frostbite and eternity in a freezer."
