Chapter 991:

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Donovan’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. This was a kidnapping. A declaration of war.

The helicopter touched down. Donovan stormed out, his six armed bodyguards fanning out around him. They moved with military precision toward the elevator.

When the doors opened on the VIP floor, they were met by Ethan Cole. He stood alone, his hand raised in a polite but firm gesture.

“Mr. Van Doren,” Ethan said, his voice calm. “Mr. Holloway is expecting you. Your team, however, will wait here.”

Donovan’s men drew their weapons. Hilliard’s men, positioned discreetly down the hall, did the same. The corridor was suddenly electric with the threat of violence.

Donovan raised a hand, silencing his men. He knew a firefight here was suicide. He gave Ethan a look that could freeze fire and stepped out of the elevator alone.

He strode down the hall, his expensive shoes silent on the polished floor. He saw the two guards stationed outside Giselle’s room. He tried the door. It was locked.

“Don’t bother, Donovan.”

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The voice came from the end of the hall. Donovan turned. Hilliard and Julian were standing in the doorway of the lounge, watching him. They looked like two predators who had just watched their prey walk into a trap.

Donovan’s gaze swept over them, finally settling on Hilliard. “You’ve crossed a line, Holloway,” he said, his voice like ice.

A cold smirk touched Hilliard’s lips. “You and your daughter crossed it first.”

Julian leaned against the doorframe, examining his fingernails. “Actually,” he added, his voice deceptively casual, “your family has been crossing lines for over twenty years.”

Donovan’s eyes widened fractionally. He realized with a jolt that this wasn’t just Hilliard. This was the Crofts, too. A united front.

He took a deep breath, forcing down the rage that threatened to choke him. He walked into the lounge.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Tell me what you want.”

Hilliard closed the door behind him, sealing the three men inside the powder keg.

Cailin drifted back to consciousness, pulled from a shallow, restless sleep by a series of muffled sounds. Footsteps in the hall. The low murmur of voices. The distant clang of a gurney.

She pressed the call button. One of Hilliard’s private nurses entered, her expression carefully neutral.

“What’s going on outside?” Cailin asked, her voice a dry whisper.

The nurse hesitated. “Mr. Holloway is just having a meeting, ma’am.”

Cailin didn’t press, but a knot of unease tightened in her stomach. Her instincts, honed by years of survival, were screaming that something was wrong.

Then she heard it. A loud crash from the room next door, like a glass being thrown against a wall. It was followed by a woman’s voice, shrill and furious.

Giselle.

“Get your hands off me!” Giselle shrieked at her guards. “You’re nothing but Hilliard’s dogs!”

There was a pained gasp, a grunt of agony as the poison twisted in her gut, but her voice returned, dripping with undiluted arrogance.

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