“Marcus doesn’t just want the money, Adrian,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He wants to destroy me. He wants to prove he can.”

“He won’t get the chance,” Adrian said.

He turned and continued down the corridor.

The air grew colder as we descended.

The smell of damp stone and aged oak began to fill the space.

We reached the end of the passage, where a heavy oak door reinforced with iron stood.

This was the entrance to the wine cellar.

Adrian reached for the keypad on the wall.

He typed in a code, and the lock clicked.

He pushed the door open, and we stepped into the vast, dark cellar.

Row after row of wine bottles sat in wooden racks, stretching into the gloom.

The only light came from the emergency exit signs.

“The garage is through the double doors at the back,” Adrian said, pointing toward the far end of the cellar.

We began to walk through the aisles.

The silence was absolute, save for the sound of our breathing.

Then, a metallic clang echoed from the ceiling above us.