1272 The Billionaire Chairwoman’s Revenge: He Publicly Mocked My Pregnancy At His Promotion Gala—Until I Walked On Stage, Seized His Empire, And Fired Him As His Boss

The sound of gunfire echoing across the courtyard felt like needles driving into my brain. My baby was down there.

"Frank, get me down there now!" I demanded, pushing myself up from behind the crib, the platinum pocket watch clenched tightly in my right fist.

"Negative, Chairwoman!" Frank snapped, his eyes cold and completely focused on the tactical situation. "You have no armor, you’re six hours post-partum, and whoever is out there just brought heavy caliber weapons to an ambush. If you step into that hallway, you’re dead."

Another volley of automatic fire erupted outside, followed by the deep, shattering thud of an armored vehicle ramming into metal.

Frank keyed his tactical radio. "Elena! Report! What’s your status?"

Static crackled across the channel for three agonizing seconds before Elena’s breathless voice broke through:

*"They’ve got us boxed in! Two black Suburbans with tactical plates! Frank, they aren't trying to shoot through the glass—they’re deploying a hydraulic breaching ram on the driver's side door!"*

"The baby?" I yelled into the radio.

*"He's in the floorboard survival shell! He’s safe, but the window seals are cracking! I can't hold them off with a nine-millimeter!"*

"I’m coming down," Frank said, his voice dropping into an icy, lethal register. He turned to me, grabbing my shoulders with iron grip. "Victoria, listen to me. There is an emergency utility dumbwaiter behind the pantry wall in this nursery. It leads directly down to the old wine cellar. You get inside, you drop to the basement, and you do not make a sound until I give the all-clear code. Do you understand me?"

"I am not hiding while you fight for my son," I snarled.

"You aren't hiding!" Frank retorted, shoving the brass key from the crib into my hand. "The wine cellar has an underground tunnel leading to the carriage house! If they take me down, you are the only person who can drive that baby out of here and deliver this key to the Federal Reserve! Move!"

Before I could argue, heavy boots thudded onto the grand staircase down the hall.

Frank shoved me toward the far corner of the nursery, sliding back an ornate mahogany panel to reveal the narrow steel gate of the service lift. He pushed me inside, pulled the gate shut, and manually tripped the release lever.

The lift dropped smoothly through the darkness of the wall cavity just as the nursery door was kicked open above me, followed instantly by the deafening roar of Frank’s service weapon discharging three rapid rounds.

The lift rattled down three stories, grinding to a halt in the damp, chilled air of the estate's sub-basement.

I shoved the steel gate open and tumbled onto the concrete floor of the wine cellar. The pain in my abdomen flared white-hot, but I ignored it, scrambling to my feet in the shadows of the towering iron racks.

Upstairs, the gunfire was continuous—Frank was holding the second-floor landing alone, buying every second he could.

I gripped the heavy brass key in one hand and the pocket watch in the other, sprinting through the dimly lit corridors of the basement toward the heavy steel blast door that connected the mansion to the subterranean carriage tunnel.

I reached the door, slammed the brass key into the lock, and turned it with all my strength.

The heavy bolts slid back with a loud clunk. I pulled the door open and sprinted down the fifty-yard concrete tunnel that sloped upward toward the detached garage.

At the end of the tunnel, a small grated window looked out directly onto the driveway.

Through the metal bars, I saw the horrifying scene.

The armored SUV sat immobilized, its front bumper crushed against the stone fountain. Four men in unmarked black tactical gear, wearing ballistic helmets and balaclavas, were surrounding the rear passenger door with an industrial cutting torch, sparks showering across the shattered asphalt.

Behind them, standing beside one of the black Suburbans with complete impunity, was Julian Vance.

And standing right next to Vance, wrapped in an elegant sable fur coat, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, was an elderly woman with piercing, venomous eyes.

Evelyn Sterling-Davies.

Alexander’s aunt. The true matriarch of the Davies faction.

"Hurry up!" Evelyn snapped, her voice shrill and commanding over the hiss of the torch. "The police will be here in eight minutes! Cut the hinges! I want that child out of that vehicle before the federal monitors track the GPS!"

"What about Victoria?" Vance asked, his hands trembling as he checked his watch. "The men inside said Frank Vance engaged them on the stairs—"

"Leave the girl to bleed out in the house," Evelyn sneered, adjusting her diamond-encrusted rings. "Without the child, her claims under the Sovereign Succession Charter are legally dead. The board will vote by unanimous proxy to appoint me interim chairwoman by ten o'clock."

My blood turned to molten lava.

They weren't just trying to steal Alexander's empire; they were going to kidnap my newborn son, raise him as an asset, and bury me in an unmarked grave.

I looked around the carriage tunnel. Mounted to the concrete wall beside me was an emergency utility control panel—the industrial shut-off for the estate’s automated natural gas heating lines and high-pressure fire suppression system.

Beside the panel hung an emergency fire axe and a flare gun used for signaling over the maritime sound.

A cold, vicious calculation settled into my mind.

They thought I was an exhausted, helpless mother cowering in a bedroom. They thought Alexander was the only one who knew how to play rough.

They were about to learn that you never corner a mother whose child is on the line.

I reached out, ripped the flare gun from its bracket, and grabbed the red emergency valve that controlled the courtyard’s subterranean propane delivery line.