Chapter 3 - The Penthouse Fortress
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Vincent Mercer did not live in a house; he lived in a vault in the sky. The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of a high-rise in the Gold Coast, accessible only by a private elevator that required biometric clearance. When they wheeled his stretcher in, the sheer scale of the security was suffocating. There were no windows in the central medical wing. No natural light. It was a sterile, heavily guarded bunker.
They transferred him to a state-of-the-art medical bed. He was heavily sedated, his chest wrapped in thick white bandages. I stood at the foot of the bed, taking in the full extent of the scars I had only briefly seen in the trauma room.
The burn marks crept up from his left hip, wrapping around his ribs and slashing across his chest like a horrific, melted map. The skin was tight, discolored, and permanently ravaged. It was the physical evidence of a betrayal so deep it had shattered his mind.
“She locked him in,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to see Silas standing in the doorway. “Elena,” Silas continued, his voice dripping with venom. “His fiancée. Eleven years ago. She drugged his scotch, chained the bedroom door shut, and set the lake house on fire. She wanted the syndicate. She thought he was dead.”
“Where is she now?” I asked quietly.
“Nobody knows. She vanished before the ashes cooled,” Silas said, stepping into the room. “Since that night, no one touches him. Not women. Not doctors. If a tailor needs to measure him for a suit, they do it by eye. If someone brushes his shoulder in a crowded room, he breaks their arm. His mind is trapped in that burning room, Nora.”
I looked down at Vincent. Beneath the ruthless reputation, beneath the blood and the power, he was just a man trapped in a nightmare.
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“I need to check his vitals,” I said, grabbing a stethoscope.
“Be careful,” Silas warned, backing away. “The anesthesia is wearing off. When he wakes up, he wakes up fighting.”
