Chapter 522:

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She held it up, panning slowly across the faces closest to her, the red recording light a tiny, malevolent eye.

“Every person who has made physical contact with me, every person who has engaged in verbal assault,” she said, her voice a low, menacing promise, “has now been documented.”

Just as she finished, a commotion erupted at the edge of the crowd. A gasp, then a panicked shout.

“Oh my God, that’s an MK Holdings security convoy!”

Allison looked up.

Three blacked-out Cadillac Escalades, built like armored rhinos, were pushing through the crowd. They weren’t honking or navigating. They simply moved forward with unstoppable force, parting the journalists as if they were nothing.

𝘛𝗁𝗲 𝗯𝘦s𝘵 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗇g 𝖾𝗑pе𝗿𝘪eոс𝗲 𝘰𝗇 𝗀a𝘭ոо𝗏𝗲𝗅ѕ.𝘤о𝗺

The lead SUV came to a silent stop directly in front of her. The passenger door swung open.

Juan Dotson emerged, followed by two other men whose cold eyes and disciplined movements screamed special forces. They didn’t speak. They didn’t threaten. Their presence alone was a suffocating blanket of lethal competence.

The reporters, so brave moments before, fell back. No one dared get close.

Juan held the rear door open. He said nothing, his body a solid shield between her and the cameras.

As she slid onto the cool leather of the back seat, she paused. She turned her head and looked back at the plaza, finding the New York Post reporter one last time.

The look she gave him was not anger or triumph. It was flat, empty, final, the look one gives something already dead.

The armored door closed with a deep, satisfying thud, sealing them in a cocoon of silence. The cacophony of the plaza vanished.

Allison leaned her head back against the leather headrest and closed her eyes. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion. She could hear her own heart, a wild bird trapped in her chest.

A bottle of chilled Evian appeared in her peripheral vision. Juan Dotson, in the passenger seat, had passed it back without turning.

“Mr. Kensington instructed me to tell you he is fine,” Juan said, his voice a calm, emotionless monotone that was more reassuring than any platitude. “He also asked me to assure you that every article, video, and social media post related to this morning’s incident will be scrubbed from the internet within fifteen minutes.”

Allison opened her eyes and took the water, her fingers brushing his. The statement was so matter-of-fact, so absolute. This wasn’t PR. It was a digital dictatorship. The scope of Adam’s power settled over her.

She twisted off the cap and drank, the cold water a balm to her raw throat, watching the city streets blur past the tinted window. “Where are we going? Back to the safe house?”

“No, ma’am,” Juan replied. “Mr. Kensington’s instructions were specific. We are to take you anywhere you wish to go. He said, and I quote, ‘Retreat is not her style.'”

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