Chapter 11 - The Billionaire's Ultimatum
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“I specifically instructed you not to make this dramatic, Emily,” Preston said, his voice entirely conversational as he adjusted his silver cuff links.
Marjorie did not hesitate. She squeezed the trigger of her revolver.
BANG!
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed concrete space. Preston reacted with terrifying speed, twisting his body sideways. The bullet grazed his left shoulder, tearing a clean hole through his expensive wool jacket.
He didn't even flinch. Raising his suppressed pistol, he fired two rapid shots.
Pfft. Pfft.
The first round struck the heavy fire extinguisher in Uncle Nate’s hands. The pressurized cylinder exploded, filling the room with a dense, blinding cloud of white chemical foam.
The second round caught Marjorie in the upper thigh. She cried out in pain, collapsing against the concrete wall as her revolver clattered across the floor.
“Stop!” I screamed, stepping forward and putting myself directly between Preston’s gun and my bleeding lawyer. “Stop it, Preston!”
The white chemical foam settled slowly, coating the room like toxic snow. Uncle Nate was on his knees, coughing violently as he tried to clear his lungs. Marjorie clutched her bleeding leg, her face twisted in agony.
Preston stepped casually over the fallen steel door, wiping a speck of white powder from his lapel.
“You always surround yourself with weak people, Emily,” he said, stepping closer to me. “That was Wren’s fatal flaw as well. She believed love and sentimentality could protect her from legal reality. It couldn't.”
“You killed her,” I spat, staring into his dead eyes. “You murdered your own sister.”
“I corrected an accounting error in the family estate,” Preston replied without a shred of remorse. “The Hartwell empire requires a firm, unyielding hand. Wren was soft. You are soft. But the child you are carrying... that child represents pure legal equity. That child is my future.”
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small, pre-filled glass syringe equipped with a short needle.
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“My private medical team is waiting in the transport van outside,” Preston said smoothly. “We are going to perform an emergency extraction tonight. And tomorrow morning, the financial world will mourn the tragic, sudden passing of my mentally fragile wife.”
He lunged forward, grabbing my uninjured wrist with a grip like a vice.
