Chapter 3 - The Beverly Hills Ambush and the Safehouse Vault**
The heavy iron gates of our Beverly Hills estate swung open automatically as Richard’s sleek black SUV sped up the long, winding private driveway. He parked haphazardly near the grand double front doors, leaping out of the vehicle with a hurried, nervous energy that completely betrayed the calm grief he had projected for the television cameras earlier that morning.
He didn't wait for staff; he unlocked the front door himself, throwing it open and slamming it shut behind him.
"Hello?" Richard called out into the cavernous, quiet foyer, his voice echoing off the Italian marble floors. "Is anyone here?"
Silence answered him. The house felt unusually cold. The smart-home automation system seemed to be running on a restricted protocol, dimming the interior lighting to a low, amber glow while heavy steel security shutters silently slid down over all the exterior windows, locking them tight.
Frowning, Richard hurried down the long corridor toward the master study, where my private, floor-to-ceiling biometric safe was built into the wood-paneled wall. That safe held the physical bearer instruments and hard drives containing the master encryption keys to the entire tech conglomerate—the ultimate prize he had schemed for two years to acquire.
He rushed to the biometric scanner, slammed his palm against the glass plate, and typed in his secondary administrative override code.
*Access Denied. Biometric Mismatch.*
Richard cursed under his breath, trying the code again. Access Denied.
"Damn it!" he muttered, slamming his fist against the wooden paneling. He whipped out his phone, dialing my personal number—the number of the phone that was currently resting quietly at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean inside the pocket of my discarded flight jacket. It went straight to voicemail.
"Pick up, you stupid bitch," Richard hissed into the empty room, his polite facade entirely melting away into vicious paranoia. "Where the hell is the recovery key?"
Suddenly, the massive floor-to-ceiling smart-glass window behind the mahogany desk flickered, shifting instantly from opaque privacy glass to a crystal-clear, high-definition display screen.
A soft chime echoed through the room.
Richard spun around, his eyes widening in sheer, paralyzing horror.
Appearing live on the giant display screen was the interior of the secure safehouse conference room. And sitting directly in the center of the frame, looking healthy, radiant, and intensely composed, was me.
For a terrifying, motionless second, Richard stared at the screen as if he were looking face-to-face with a ghost. All the color drained completely from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, chalky gray. His knees buckled slightly, and he gripped the edge of the mahogany desk to keep from collapsing.
"A-Amelia...?" he stammered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched squeak. "How... how are you... you fell... out of the helicopter..."
"It's amazing what gravity can't accomplish when you wear the right equipment, Richard," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the high-end studio speakers installed in his study.
On screen, I offered him a chilling, razor-sharp smile.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice your late-night financial inquiries? Did you genuinely believe that a man who spends his entire life playing poker could hide a tell as massive as planning my murder for six straight months?"
Richard’s chest heaved rapidly as panic took over. He backed away from the desk, his hands trembling violently. "It... it was an accident! I swear to God, Amelia! The wind caught the door! It was a tragic accident!"
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"Save your breath for the federal agents standing right behind you," I said smoothly.
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