Chapter 5
The heavy thud of a car door closing echoed sharply over the crunch of gravel behind Beatrice’s sedan. In her rearview mirror, she watched the tall, commanding silhouette of Grant Sterling approach through the blinding glare of the high beams. He didn't rush. His movements possessed the terrifying, predatory calm of a man who owned the very ground upon which she sat.
Beatrice’s thumb slammed against the screen of her phone, praying the upload progress bar would finish the final two percent before he reached the window. Hurry, she thought, her breath fogging the interior glass. Come on, finish.
A sharp rap on the driver-side window made her jump. Grant didn't wait for her to roll it down. He pressed his palm flat against the glass, his face inches from the barrier, his expression cold and devoid of human warmth. Through the thick safety glass, his voice sounded muffled but entirely clear.
"Unlock the door, Beatrice. Don't make this more unpleasant than it already needs to be."
The progress bar on the phone hit one hundred percent. Upload complete. A quiet digital chime confirmed the transfer to Marcus Vance's secure server. A profound wave of relief washed over her, instantly replacing her terror with a cold, hardened resolve. She dropped the phone into the deep pocket of her coat, pressed the unlock button, and pushed the car door open, swinging it wide enough to force Grant to step back.
"You're following me now, Mr. Sterling?" Beatrice asked, her voice steady as she stood up to face him, refusing to shrink beneath his towering height. "Does Eleanor know you're out here chasing the hired help, or are you worried about what I told the officers?"
Grant adjusted the cuffs of his tuxedo shirt, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You're trespassing on private municipal easement, and more importantly, you're in possession of proprietary household data. The police are already reviewing the security logs from the front gate. You're going to hand over that phone, Beatrice, right now, or you'll spend the next five years of your life fighting felony wiretapping charges in a federal penitentiary."
"Is that a threat, Grant?" a familiar voice cut through the cool night air.
From the passenger side of the black sedan that had blocked her in, a woman stepped out into the amber glow of the streetlamp. It wasn't Eleanor. It was Sarah Jensen, a prominent defense attorney whose firm frequently represented high-net-worth clients in ugly custody disputes. She wore a tailored charcoal trench coat and carried a sleek leather briefcase.
"Sarah," Beatrice said, surprised.
"Drop the dramatics, Grant," Sarah said, stepping between the two of them with absolute professional authority. "Threatening a witness on a public street thirty minutes after an assault call involving a minor is a fantastic way to turn a civil custody dispute into a criminal conspiracy investigation. My firm was retained by Beatrice approximately ten minutes ago."
Grant’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. He looked between Beatrice and the lawyer, calculating the risk with the cold precision of a corporate executive. "She’s a disgruntled domestic worker making absurd allegations about a household accident."
"An accident resulting in second-degree thermal burns on a child's scalp," Sarah countered smoothly, unzipping her briefcase and pulling out a folded document. "Which is currently documented by photographic evidence and a formal statement filed with the state child welfare hotline—a hotline that operates outside your local county jurisdiction, I might add."
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Grant stared at the paper in Sarah's hand. For the first time, a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed his perfectly groomed features.
***
