“Whitmore Global doesn’t care about your vision. The chairman issued a direct kill order on our entire portfolio.”
Slowly, Nathaniel turned toward me.
He stared at my dark hair, my bloodied mouth, my shaking body.
And then he remembered the name I had kept out of the press for years.
Isabella Whitmore.
Before he could speak, the mansion’s massive oak doors were violently breached.
Six men in dark tailored suits entered with silent precision. Two secured the entrance. Behind them came private trauma paramedics carrying medical bags.
They rushed past Nathaniel as if he were furniture.
“Ms. Whitmore,” the lead medic said gently. “Let’s get you off the floor.”
They lifted me carefully and guided me to a leather chair near the fireplace. I refused a stretcher. I sat still while they cleaned the wounds on my back, keeping my eyes locked on Nathaniel.
He had fallen to his knees, hyperventilating.
Then Malcolm Pierce entered.
