“Marcus! In here! Now!”

The heavy oak doors of the library burst open.

Three men in black tactical gear stepped into the room.

They carried semi-automatic rifles.

At the front was Marcus, the head of the Whitmore estate security.

Behind him stood my husband, Ryan.

Ryan’s face was bruised from his earlier confrontation with my father.

His expensive silk shirt was torn at the collar.

His eyes were filled with a sick, desperate rage.

He pointed a silver revolver directly at my head.

“Drop the gun, Emily,” Ryan snarled.

“Drop it, or I will put a bullet in you myself.”

My father, Arthur, stepped out from the shadows near the bookshelves.

He did not look afraid.

He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Lower the weapon, sweetheart,” my father said softly.

“We do not need to play their game.”

I slowly lowered the pistol.

I let it slip from my fingers.

It hit the thick Persian rug with a dull thud.

Marcus immediately stepped forward and kicked it away.

One of the guards grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back.