Chapter 6 - The Residence
The rain felt like tiny needles against my face as I stood on the pavement outside the Fourth Street trust building, but the cold barely registered. David’s text glowed on my screen, repeating the same terrifying accusation over and over: An unregistered terminal inside your own private residence.
My home. Not a corporate server. Not a hidden vault downtown. My house—the quiet, secluded brownstone in Lincoln Park that I had inherited from my father, the place where I kept my personal files, my childhood memories, and the secure satellite terminal linked directly to Meridian’s private network.
I didn't call an Uber. I flagged down a municipal taxi idling near the corner, barely waiting for the back door to swing open before climbing inside.
“Lincoln Park,” I told the driver, my voice tight. “Park and Dearborn. And step on it.”
During the twenty-minute drive through the slick, rain-drenched Chicago streets, my mind raced through every possible explanation. How could an override originate from inside my home? I had spent the last three days in San Francisco and Chicago hotels, attending board dinners and corporate briefings. The brownstone was empty. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
When the taxi pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of my courtyard, the house was pitch black. No lights burned in the second-floor library. No lamps flickered in the kitchen. It stood silent and imposing against the dark, stormy sky, looking exactly as it always had—a fortress of brick and ivy guarding secrets I was only beginning to understand.
I paid the driver, hurried through the courtyard, and unlocked the heavy oak front door.
The security keypad by the entryway didn't beep its usual welcoming chime. Instead, it flashed a steady amber warning: System Bypass Active.
I drew in a sharp breath, dropping my wet handbag onto the entryway bench, and stepped quietly onto the hardwood floor. The house smelled faintly of old paper, leather, and something else—expensive eucalyptus oil. A scent I didn't use. A scent that belonged to someone who had been living in my space while I was away.
Moving cautiously, I avoided the floorboards I knew would creak and made my way down the dimly lit hallway toward my father’s private study at the back of the house. The study door was cracked open an inch, casting a thin, pale beam of light across the runner rug.
I pushed the door open without a sound.
The room was illuminated only by the cold, blue glow of a portable diagnostic laptop connected directly to the wall panel by a thick fiber-optic cable. Sitting in my father’s leather armchair, calmly sipping a cup of black coffee from my favorite ceramic mug, was a man I hadn't seen in six years.
Julian Vance.
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He looked older, his hair dusted with gray at the temples, but the sharp, predatory intelligence in his eyes hadn't changed a bit. Julian was Eleanor Vance’s younger brother—and the former chief technology architect of Meridian’s global logistics network before he was ousted in a messy corporate scandal a decade ago.
“You always were terrible at locking the back courtyard gate, Naomi,” Julian said smoothly, not even turning his head as I stepped into the room. He took a slow sip of coffee. “Or perhaps you just wanted someone to find you before the SEC did.”
