203 He Humiliated Me Over Adult Diapers After Carrying His Triplets—Until His Best Friend Exposed His Hidden Past and Secret Life

The wail of the industrial alarm pierced through the silence, strobing emergency lights painting the walls in jarring flashes of crimson.

"The server room," Brandon said, instantly moving to the door and peering into the dark corridor. "The main breaker in the basement just tripped. Scott had a secondary access card for building maintenance. He’s not in Bavaria, Lauren. He never was."

Panic flared in my chest, instinctive and sharp. "My babies. Mrs. Gable is with them at the house."

"Arthur Miller has two private security guards parked in an unmarked sedan outside your cottage," Margaret Vance said, unbothered by the screaming sirens or the flashing red lights. Her cane remained planted firmly between her feet. "Your children are safe, Lauren. Scott isn't heading for a suburban house where he knows police can corner him. He’s coming here. He needs the physical bearer bonds locked in the floor safe behind that portrait."

She pointed her cane toward the oil painting of the Vance estate hanging on the wall behind Scott’s desk.

"He knows Arthur Miller filed an injunction an hour ago," Margaret continued, her voice cutting through the mechanical screech of the alarm. "The bank accounts are frozen. The wire is dead. The only liquid currency he has left on the continent is sitting in that steel box. Seven million dollars in bearer bonds he skimmed from my European accounts before he staged my death."

Elena looked toward the dark hallway, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Mother, we have to get out of here. If Scott realizes you’re alive, he won’t just run. He has nothing left to lose."

"I am seventy-two years old, Elena," Margaret said coldly. "I spent the last two years being pumped full of synthetic sedatives in a sterile room overlooking Lake Geneva while this parasite spent my family’s fortune on sports cars, mistress apartments, and life insurance policies on newborn babies. I am not running down twenty flights of emergency stairs for Scott."

Brandon turned back from the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear. "Cell towers in the district are jammed, probably from the fire alarm protocol. But the landline in the reception desk still has power. Lauren, take Margaret and Elena into the private elevator behind the library annex. It runs on an independent generator."

"What about you?" I asked, grabbing Brandon’s arm. "You can't stay up here alone in the dark."

"I’m not staying up here to fight him," Brandon said, his jaw tightening. "I’m staying up here to lock that safe from the inside. If he gets those bonds, he can buy his way across the Mexican border before dawn. If he doesn't, he's just an unemployed felon with no cash and an active warrant."

I looked at the desk, where Scott’s corporate laptop was still open, the blue screen glowing against the darkness. Beside it lay the blue insurance folder. I grabbed the folder, shoving it inside my coat. That document was Scott’s death sentence in a court of law; I wasn't leaving it behind for him to burn.

"We go together," I told Brandon firmly. "No heroics. You lock the override panel on the safe, and we take the private lift down to the lobby where Miller’s people are."

Brandon hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. He rushed to the painting, swinging the heavy gilded frame away from the wall. Behind it was a six-digit digital keypad. Brandon punched in a sequence: *8-1-1-4-9-9*.

The keypad let out a sharp, high-pitched error tone: *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*

*ACCESS DENIED. SYSTEM LOCKED BY REMOTE MASTER.*

Brandon froze. His hand dropped from the keypad. "He already initiated a remote wipe. The safe isn't locked. The electronic bolt just disengaged."

The door behind the painting clicked. The heavy steel door slid open two inches on oiled hinges.

From the darkened stairwell at the end of the hall, the heavy fire door slammed open against the concrete wall with a concussive boom.

Footsteps approached fast—heavy, erratic, accompanied by the wet, ragged wheezing of a man who had just sprinted up multiple flights of stairs in a blind fury.

"Lauren!" Scott’s voice bellowed down the dark hallway, bouncing off the glass partitions. It didn't sound human. It was the guttural howl of a wounded animal backed into a slaughterhouse pen. "I know you're in there! Give me the keycards!"

Margaret Vance didn't flinch. She slowly turned around to face the dark entryway of the executive suite, raising her heavy carved cane like a weapon.

"Stay behind me, girls," the old woman said softly.