Chapter 4 - The Escape from the Fortress
Arthur’s face turned from pale white to a dark, dangerous red. He leaned down, grabbing the armrests of Clara’s wheelchair with iron strength, intending to push her through the rear service exit before the police arrived.
"You're coming with me, Clara," Arthur hissed in her ear, his voice devoid of any paternal warmth. "You will shut your mouth, or I will ensure you spend the rest of your life in a private facility in South America."
"Get your hands off her!" Leo roared.
With a desperate burst of strength, Leo drove his elbow back into the stomach of the guard holding his right arm, broke free, and lunged onto the dais. He slammed his shoulder into Arthur Sterling, sending the billionaire tumbling into a towering display of champagne glasses.
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the hall.
"Clara! Grab my hand!" Leo shouted, grabbing the push-handles of her wheelchair and spinning her around toward the side exit.
"Stop them!" Beatrice screamed from the stage, her wedding veil torn as she pointed at the escaping teenagers. "Security, stop them!"
Leo pushed Clara’s wheelchair at a full sprint down the service corridor, past stunned catering staff and stacked crates of wine. Clara held onto the armrests for dear life, her heart hammering against her ribs, the yellow envelope clutched tightly against her chest.
They burst through the heavy steel emergency doors into the rainy alley behind the St. Regis.
Standing in the alley was an old, beat-up black SUV, its engine idling, the rear door swung wide open. Behind the wheel was a middle-aged woman with sharp blue eyes and a severe haircut—Dr. Evelyn Reed, former chief compliance officer at Sterling Bio-Tech.
"Get in! Fast!" Dr. Reed barked.
Leo lifted Clara out of her wheelchair and placed her carefully into the back seat. He tossed the folded wheelchair into the trunk, slammed the door, and jumped into the passenger seat just as three security guards burst into the alley with drawn weapons.
Dr. Reed slammed her foot on the gas. The tires screeched against the wet pavement, and the SUV rocketed out of the alley into the Friday evening Manhattan traffic.
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Clara leaned her head against the cold glass of the rear window, watching the wedding venue shrink into the distance. Rain washed down the glass, blurring the flashing red and blue lights of arriving police cruisers.
She was sixteen years old, sitting in the back of a fleeing car with two strangers, realizing that her father was not her hero—he was her jailer.
