Chapter 3 - Champagne and Shards
Downstairs, the sound of the front door opening caused Marcus to pause mid-laugh.
“Must be the late-night organic grocery delivery,” Marcus said, swirling his champagne flute, leaning against the marble kitchen island. “God, I love having staff. Hey, Chloe, check if they brought the sparkling water.”
Chloe strolled out of the pantry, wearing a silk robe, a smug smile plastered across her face. She pushed open the kitchen swinging door—and froze.
Standing in the grand foyer were five towering men in dark overcoats, their faces carved from granite, their eyes fixed on the kitchen with the terrifying focus of apex predators.
Marcus frowned, setting his glass down. “Who the hell are you? How did you get past the gates? Security!”
Kane didn't yell. He walked forward, his heavy leather boots clicking rhythmically against the Italian marble floors. Jax, Beckett, Vance, and Cole flanked him, spreading out to block every exit from the room.
“There is no security, Marcus,” Kane said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the high ceilings. “We dismissed them at the gate.”
Marcus puffed out his chest, attempting to channel the corporate arrogance that had made him a mid-level regional vice president. “Do you have any idea who I am? This is private property! I’ll have you all arrested for trespassing and assault! Chloe, call the police right now!”
Chloe fumbled for her phone on the counter, her hands shaking so violently she dropped it. The screen shattered against the tile.
I walked down the grand staircase at that exact moment.
I wasn't wearing my old, faded cardigan or the slippers Marcus hated. I wore a sharp black blazer, my hair pulled back into a tight knot, my posture straight and unyielding.
Marcus blinked, staring at me as if I were a ghost. “Elena? What is the meaning of this? Get these thugs out of my house!”
“Thugs?” Jax stepped forward, a cold, humorless smile touching his lips. He tossed a thick leather-bound folder onto the marble island, right beside Marcus’s champagne flute. “Marcus, let me introduce myself. I’m Jax Sinclair. Elena’s brother. And according to the deeds, financial audits, and mortgage notes in this folder, you don't actually own this house.”
Marcus scoffed, though color was rapidly draining from his face. “That’s absurd! The deed is in my name!”
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“Was in your name,” Beckett corrected smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. “Until twelve minutes ago when Vance here executed a lien foreclosure on every corporate asset backing your primary business loans. You’re technically squatting.”
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