The cavernous library was cast in deep, dramatic shadows, illuminated only by the pale moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows.

Kneeling on the Persian rug in front of the massive mahogany bookcase was a dark, cloaked figure.

The heavy floor-to-ceiling bookshelf—which doubled as the secret door to Victor’s concealed wall safe—stood swung open on its heavy steel hinges, revealing the matte-black steel face of the safe embedded deep within the stone foundation of the mansion.

The intruder had a portable optical drill resting against the electronic keypad of the safe, sending a shower of tiny, incandescent sparks cascading onto the carpet.

“Don't move,” Clara commanded. Her voice didn't shake; it rang out with a sharp, metallic authority that echoed off the leather-bound book spines.

The figure jerked violently upward, dropping the drill.

The intruder spun around, standing to their full height. As the moonlight caught the person’s face, Clara’s breath caught in her throat.

It wasn't a professional international jewel thief or a corporate saboteur.

It was Marcus Moretti—Victor’s longtime head of private security, the man who oversaw the forty-armed guards patrolling the estate perimeter, the man Victor trusted with his life and the safety of his children.

Marcus stared at Clara, his face pale, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his eyes wild with desperate, cornered panic. He was holding a heavy leather briefcase stuffed to the brim with classified physical document folders and a black velvet pouch overflowing with high-value bearer bonds.

“Ms. Bennett,” Marcus breathed out, his voice shaking. He slowly let go of the briefcase, his hands rising to shoulder height in a universal gesture of surrender—though his right hand hovered dangerously close to the custom leather holster concealed beneath his tailored suit jacket. “You shouldn't be wandering the halls at this hour.”

“What are you doing, Marcus?” Clara demanded, taking a deliberate step forward, keeping her eyes locked on his right hand. “You’re the head of security. That’s Victor’s private vault.”

Marcus let out a dry, humorless chuckle. A dark, bitter smile twisted his features. “Security is a funny word, Ms. Bennett. People think security means walls, cameras, and guards at the gate. But real security is just a fragile illusion maintained by men who don't know when their time is up.”

“Put the briefcase down,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a deadly, unyielding register. “Or I will scream, and within thirty seconds, every guard on this property will be standing in this room.”

Marcus’s eyes darted toward the hallway doors, then back to Clara. A dangerous calculation flickered behind his gaze. He realized two things simultaneously: first, that Clara was entirely alone; and second, that if he walked out of this room with those bonds, his life of comfortable servitude to the Hale empire was over, and he could disappear to a private island before sunrise.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” Marcus whispered softly, a chilling gentleness in his tone. “You shouldn't have been so good at your job. If you had just stayed in the nursery, none of this would have concerned you.”

With blinding, terrifying speed, Marcus lunged forward across the Persian rug, his hand diving beneath his suit jacket toward the grip of his sidearm.