Married to the Coldest Media King

The bathroom door frame splintered. A large chunk of wood flew inward, skittering across the tile floor. Through the gap, Dylan could see Jax's face, red and twisted with rage.

I'm gonna make you wish you were dead! he screamed, slamming his shoulder against the wood again.

Dylan curled into the empty bathtub, pulling the shower curtain down to cover herself, as if a thin sheet of plastic could stop a monster. She clutched the dead phone to her chest like a prayer bead.

Crash. The lock gave way.

Jax stumbled into the small room, breathing hard. He grinned, a predator cornered his prey.

Found you.

He reached for her.

Suddenly, a series of soft, heavy thuds echoed from the living room, followed by a sharp, muffled cry from Tara.

Jax froze. His hand hovered inches from Dylan's face. What the hell?

Before he could turn, the front door of the apartment didn't explode-it was opened with chilling silence.

Three men in dark, unmarked tactical gear, not police uniforms, swept into the apartment. They moved with the silent, efficient brutality of corporate mercenaries. One subdued Tara with a hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other two moved toward the bedroom.

Red laser dots danced across the walls, settling in a cluster on Jax's chest.

"On your knees. Hands behind your head," one of the men said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. His weapon was suppressed.

Jax raised his hands, his tough-guy facade crumbling instantly. "Who are you? Cops?"

The lead operative stepped on Jax's foot, grinding his heel down, and twisted his arm behind his back with practiced force. Jax buckled, hitting the floor face-first. Zip ties cinched his wrists behind his back.

Tara was hyperventilating in the corner, held firmly by the third man.

Dylan peeked over the edge of the bathtub, her body shaking so violently her teeth chattered.

A man in a sharp charcoal suit walked into the apartment. He moved calmly through the silent, controlled chaos, stepping over the debris of the broken door. It was Carter, Garland's head of security.

He didn't look at Jax. He didn't look at Tara. He walked straight to the bathroom.

He saw Dylan in the tub, bruised, terrified, clutching a shower curtain.

Carter did not take off his jacket. He simply stood in the doorway, his expression clinical.

Miss Maxwell, he said, his voice low and steady. I am Carter. Mr. Brennan sent me. You are being relocated.

The name Brennan broke the dam. Dylan let out a sob, a raw, ugly sound that had been trapped in her throat for hours.

She stood on her own, her legs like jelly.

As they walked her through the living room, Jax lifted his head from the floor.

You bitch! he yelled, spitting blood. You set me up! I have rights! I have a lawyer!

Carter stopped. He looked down at Jax with the indifference one might show a cockroach.

Carter knelt and showed Jax the screen of his phone. It was a live feed of Jax's own mother's house, with two more men in dark gear standing silently on her porch.

"You have the right to remain silent," Carter said smoothly. "If you do, your mother will continue to enjoy her Tuesday night bingo. If you don't, we will forward evidence of your loan-sharking operation to the IRS. They are far more creative than the police."

"Take them," Carter ordered the operatives.

They dragged Jax and a weeping Tara out a back entrance.

Carter guided Dylan down the stairs and out onto the street. The block was quiet, with no red and blue lights. Just a few neighbors peering curiously from windows.

A black SUV waited at the curb. Not a police car. A private sanctuary.

Dylan's heart skipped a beat. She thought Garland would be inside. She wanted to see him. She needed to see the man who had summoned a ghost army for her.

Carter opened the rear door. The interior was empty.

Where is he? Dylan asked, her voice raspy.

Mr. Brennan is in a video conference with Tokyo, Carter said, closing the door after she climbed in. He has arranged for you to stay at a secure location.

Dylan sank into the leather seat. Of course. He was working. She was just a problem to be solved, a logistics issue.

But as the car pulled away, leaving the sirens and the squalor behind, she hugged herself tightly.

Carter typed a message on his phone in the front seat.

Asset secured. Minor physical injuries. Emotional shock high.

A moment later, the reply came from Garland.

Period.

Just a single dot. It was the most Garland Brennan thing she had ever seen.