the little girl told him to open his dead wife’s closet. what adrian found inside proved the wrong woman had died that night.

The security basement of the Westwood estate was an underground bunker built during the Cold War era—thick concrete walls, heavy steel-reinforced doors, and an independent electronic locking system controlled either from the main gatehouse or Madison’s private tablet.

Adrian sprinted down the narrow concrete stairwell, the soles of his dress shoes slapping loudly against the steps.

When he reached the heavy steel door of the holding room, he found it locked tight. A small electronic keypad blinked with a steady red light beside the frame.

“Rachel!” Adrian shouted, slamming his palm against the cold steel. “Rachel, can you hear me?”

A muffled sound came from the other side—a sharp gasp, followed by the frantic scratching of small fingers against the metal.

“Mr. Westwood?!” Rachel’s voice cried out, thick with terror. “Oh, thank God! She locked us in here! She said we saw too much!”

“Step away from the door!” Adrian ordered.

He looked around the narrow corridor. There was no fire axe, no crowbar. Just a heavy industrial maintenance cart left behind by the estate crew, loaded with spare plumbing pipes and tools.

Adrian grabbed a three-foot length of solid iron galvanized pipe from the cart. He wedged the tapered end into the narrow seam between the steel door and the concrete frame, right beside the electronic bolt housing.

He planted his feet, gripping the iron bar with both hands, and threw his entire body weight downward.

Creak—SNAP.

The internal solenoid bolt sheared off with a deafening metallic shriek. The door popped open an inch. Adrian pulled hard, wrenching the heavy steel door completely off its latch.

Inside the small, poorly lit storage room, Rachel was huddled on the floor, clutching Emma tightly to her chest. The little girl was crying softly, her face buried in Rachel’s apron.

“Are you hurt?” Adrian asked, dropping the iron pipe and kneeling beside them.

“We’re okay, sir. She just shoved us in here twenty minutes ago when Emma started crying in the kitchen,” Rachel sobbed, her hands trembling. “She said... she said if we ever breathed a word about what Emma saw in Mrs. Claire’s closet, she’d make sure we disappeared.”

“It’s over,” Adrian said, helping Rachel to her feet and lifting Emma into his arms. The little girl immediately wrapped her small arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder just as she had done in the ballroom. “Madison doesn’t control this house anymore.”

As they stepped out of the basement corridor into the main utility hallway, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from above.

Adrian spun around, shielding Rachel and Emma behind him.

Three men in dark suits—private security guards hired exclusively by Madison over the past two years—rounded the corner, blocking the exit to the upper floors. The lead guard, a burly former mercenary named Vance, rested his hand casually near the taser holster on his belt.

“Mr. Westwood,” Vance said smoothly, though his eyes were hard and calculating. “Ms. Cole requested that you and the staff remain down here until the state police arrive to handle a... domestic disturbance.”

“A domestic disturbance?” Adrian laughed coldly. “Step aside, Vance. Unless you want to be charged as an accessory to murder alongside Madison.”

Vance didn't flinch. “I don't know what Ms. Cole told you, sir, but we take our orders from the head of household operations. And right now, that’s her.”

He stepped forward, signaling the other two guards to close in.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. He handed Emma gently to Rachel. “Hold her tight. Cover her ears.”

Before Vance could react, Adrian didn't wait for them to close the distance. He lunged forward, executing a textbook defensive sweep that caught the lead guard entirely off guard, driving his fist squarely into Vance’s solar plexus.

Vance wheezed, doubling over, but the other two guards rushed in.

The narrow hallway erupted into a violent, chaotic struggle. Punches flew in the cramped space; a utility shelf crashed to the floor, spilling paint cans and cleaning supplies across the concrete. Adrian took a heavy blow to his jaw, tasting blood, but adrenaline fueled every movement. He grabbed one guard by the lapels of his suit jacket and slammed him headfirst into the cinderblock wall, rendering him unconscious instantly.

The third guard hesitated, looking at his comrades sprawled across the floor, then at Adrian’s cold, unyielding stare.

Slowly, the guard raised his hands and took a step back.