He gripped his cane so tightly his hand began to tremble.

Outside, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the boardroom, casting long, sharp shadows across the paneled walls.

A second later, a heavy roll of thunder shook the thick glass windows.

My phone, lying on the mahogany table next to the tablet, suddenly lit up.

The screen showed an incoming call from the security desk downstairs.

I reached out and picked it up, pressing the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?” I said, my voice barely a whisper against the receiver.

The voice on the other end was frantic, competing with the static of the storm.

“Mrs. Whitmore, we have a security issue at the main entrance,” the guard said.

“What is happening down there?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the leather casing of the phone.

“A private transport vehicle just pulled into the basement bay,” the guard replied.

“They claim they have authorization from Mr. Richard Whitmore to escort a minor from the premises.”

My blood ran cold.

I looked up at Richard, who was staring at me with a cold, dead expression.