Chapter 4 - The Party Interrupted
Inside the Greenwich manor, the laughter had reached a fever pitch.
Derek was holding court near the grand piano, regaling a group of junior analysts with an exaggerated story of how he had “managed” his impending divorce with ruthless corporate efficiency.
"It’s all about risk mitigation, gentlemen," Derek declared, swirling his scotch. "You don't let sentimentality interfere with asset protection. Sarah was a liability. Plain and simple. I cut her loose before she could drag down my portfolio."
Jessica laughed, leaning against his shoulder, her hand resting provocatively on his lapel. "You’re such a mastermind, Derek. I swear, you should run a hedge fund by next year."
Before Derek could bask further in the adoration of his sycophantic audience, the floor beneath their feet began to vibrate.
It wasn't a minor tremor. The crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling violently swung to and fro, the crystal pendants clinking together in a frantic, shattering rhythm. The French doors facing the front lawn rattled as if struck by a battering ram.
"What the hell is that?" Marcus Vance dropped his champagne glass, the crystal shattering against the imported marble floor.
The music cut out abruptly as the house’s main transformer blew from the sudden electrical surge caused by external interference. The brilliant lights flickered, died for a second, and then switched to auxiliary emergency power, casting an eerie, amber glow over the panicked guests.
"An earthquake?" someone yelled near the dining room.
"In Connecticut?" another shot back, panic rising in their voices.
Derek frowned, irritation flashing across his handsome features. He pushed Jessica aside and strode toward the massive front windows, pulling back the velvet drapes to look out onto the front lawn.
What he saw froze the blood in his veins.
Landing directly on his prize-winning Kentucky bluegrass lawn—churning up mud, turf, and expensive landscaping under a hurricane-force downdraft—was a monstrous, matte-black military helicopter. Stenciled in low-visibility charcoal on its fuselage was an emblem that made Derek’s stomach drop into his shoes: a stylized silver phoenix framed by a geometric crest.
The crest of Sinclair Global Holdings.
"No," Derek whispered, pressing his hands against the cold glass. "That’s... that’s impossible. That’s a defense contractor bird. What are they doing here?"
Before anyone could answer, the helicopter's side cabin door slid open with a sharp, mechanical clack.
A flood of blinding tactical light spilled out across the lawn. And down the heavy-duty deployment ramp strode four figures in high-altitude tactical gear, their faces obscured by comms headsets and Kevlar helmets, moving with the terrifying synchronization of an elite extraction unit.
May you like
Behind them, stepping down with immaculate, terrifying poise, was an older man in a bespoke charcoal overcoat, his silver hair blowing in the rotor wash, holding a titanium briefcase.
And walking right beside him—calm, dry, and wrapped in her simple winter coat—was Sarah.
