The woman behind the east-wing door called Ava’s name on her first night in Julian’s penthouse.
Ava froze in the dark corridor. Julian had shown her which cameras Charles controlled, which staff could be trusted, and exactly where to stand when photographers demanded proof that their engagement was real. He had not explained how a stranger locked behind a steel door knew she had arrived.
“Help me, Ava,” the woman sobbed. “Before they give it to Noah.”
That was enough. Ava stole the key card from Julian’s jacket and opened the forbidden wing. The beautiful penthouse vanished behind the door. Inside waited hospital files, surveillance screens, and rows of refrigerated drug vials. One folder carried Noah Monroe’s name in red.
The consent form inside bore Ava’s forged signature. A treatment schedule marked her brother for an experimental injection at nine the next morning.
A hand closed around her wrist. Julian pulled her against him, covered her mouth, and locked the door behind them. “If I meant to hurt you, you would not have heard me coming,” he whispered. His eyes dropped to the file in her hand. “My uncle tests unapproved drugs on patients too poor to fight back. I have been collecting evidence for months.”
“You knew Noah was on the list.”
“I learned tonight.” Julian released her and loaded a pistol from the desk. “That contract put you close enough for Charles to use him against me.”
Every light in the penthouse died. Steel shutters slammed over the windows. Charles’s voice flowed through the security system. “You should have chosen a poorer girl with less courage, Julian.” A camera turned toward Ava. “Bring me the file, little fiancée, or your brother receives his first dose before sunrise.”