The Hostage Stole My Fiance

Alexander thrusts the gun barrel forward, the cold steel digging violently into the skin between Charles's eyebrows. The metallic click of the safety disengaging cuts through the room like a whip.

Charles's knees buckle. His arrogant posture collapses instantly. He throws both hands high into the air, his fingers trembling wildly.

"Whoa, hey, let's calm down," Charles stammers. A thick bead of sweat rolls down his temple. "Don't shoot. Please."

Samantha presses her back flat against the wall. She covers her mouth with both hands, muffling a high-pitched squeal.

"Alexander," I state, stepping over the shattered ceramic vase on the floor.

He does not lower the weapon. His gray eyes remain locked on Charles. "He raised a hand to you, Natalie."

"He isn't worth the bullet," I reply, my voice steady. "Put it away."

Alexander keeps the Glock pinned to Charles's skull for three agonizing seconds. Then, he slides the weapon back into his shoulder holster.

Charles exhales a loud, ragged gasp, dropping his arms.

Before Charles can speak, Alexander reaches into his tailored jacket. He pulls out a thick manila folder and extends it toward me.

"Review these," Alexander commands.

I take the heavy file. I flip it open right on the kitchen island. Inside, crisp legal documents bear the official seals of the city registry. The deed to the Rosewood apartment sits on top. Beneath it lies the corporate charter for Lawson Tech.

"What is that?" Charles demands, rubbing his forehead where the gun left a harsh red ring.

"Proof," I answer, scanning the bold print. "The dummy corporation that funded your startup is registered entirely in my name. Every patent you filed, every server you bought, every desk in your office belongs to my holding firm."

Charles steps forward, his face twisting in intense denial. "That's a lie! Lawson Tech is mine! I signed the lease! I hired the developers!"

"With my money," I shoot back. "Five million dollars, Charles. Funneled through three different shell accounts so your fragile ego wouldn't realize your poor girlfriend actually owned you."

Charles lunges for the folder. "Give me that!"

Alexander steps neatly into his path. He strikes Charles in the chest with the flat of his palm. The blow sends Charles stumbling backward into the couch.

"Read it from there," Alexander instructs.

I hold up the corporate charter so he can see the bold text. "Your signature is on the management agreement, Charles. Not the ownership deed. You are an employee of my holding firm. An employee I just terminated."

Samantha lowers her hands from her face. She stares at Alexander, her eyes raking over his custom suit and the expensive watch on his wrist. She adjusts the collar of Charles's shirt, intentionally letting it slip further off her shoulder to expose her collarbone.

"Sir," Samantha purrs, stepping toward him. "You don't understand. Natalie is unstable. She just attacked me. You shouldn't be helping her."

Alexander doesn't even blink. "Take another step toward me, and I will have my men throw you off the balcony instead of your luggage."

Samantha freezes, the fake sweetness draining entirely from her face.

"Sign the final page," Alexander instructs, ignoring the two of them completely. He produces a sleek silver fountain pen and sets it on the marble counter.

I flip to the back of the stack. A formal eviction notice and an immediate asset seizure mandate stare back at me.

I press the paper flat and drag the pen across the dotted line, leaving my signature in bold black ink.

"Done," I declare, handing the folder back to Alexander.

Alexander raises his right hand and snaps his fingers.

Heavy boots thunder down the hallway. Four massive men in matching black suits storm through the open front door, filling the entryway.

"Clear out their belongings," Alexander orders, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Through the window."

"Yes, Mr. Sterling," the lead guard barks.

The men fan out. One guard grabs Samantha's designer handbag from the console table. He marches straight to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, slides them open, and hurls the purse into the night air.

"Are you insane?" Samantha shrieks, lunging forward. "My car keys are in there!"

Another guard ignores her, marching straight into the master bedroom. He emerges seconds later carrying an armful of Charles's custom Italian suits, still on their wooden hangers. He tosses the entire bundle off the balcony.

"Stop!" Charles roars. He charges at the guard. "Those cost three thousand dollars each!"

The guard plants a massive hand on Charles's chest and shoves him backward. Charles hits the hardwood floor hard, sliding into the kitchen island.

The guards are efficient. One returns from the bedroom with Charles's prized golf clubs. He pulls out a titanium driver, snaps it over his knee, and tosses the pieces into the night.

"My clubs!" Charles screams, his voice cracking into a high pitch.

Another guard carries a cardboard box filled with Samantha's makeup, jewelry, and the cheap shoes she left by the door. He dumps the entire box over the railing.

"My things!" Samantha wails, dropping to her knees. "Charles, do something!"

"I'm calling the police!" Charles yells, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"Call them," I challenge, walking toward him. "Tell them you're trespassing on my property. Tell them you tried to assault the owner."

"You think you're so smart?" Charles snarls, dialing furiously. "I know Captain Briggs at your precinct. I donated ten grand to the policeman's ball last month. You're just a bottom-feeder, Natalie! When I tell Briggs about this, he'll strip your badge today. I'll make sure you never work at that police station again!"

I cross my arms, watching his pathetic display.

"You hear me?" Charles yells, pointing a trembling finger at my face. "You'll be unemployable in this city! You'll be begging me for a job when they fire you!"

"Drag them out," Alexander commands quietly.

Two guards grab Charles by the arms, lifting him entirely off his feet. He kicks and thrashes, his dress shoes scraping against the floorboards.

"You're dead, Natalie!" Charles bellows as they haul him toward the door. "You hear me? You are nothing!"

Another guard grabs Samantha by the collar of the oversized white shirt.

"Don't touch me!" she cries, stumbling over her bare feet as the guard forces her into the hallway.

The heavy oak door slams shut, cutting off their frantic yelling.

Silence falls over the ruined living room. The cold night wind blows in through the open balcony doors, rustling the remaining papers on the kitchen counter.

I stare at the shattered vase on the floor, the remnants of the life I spent three years building.

Alexander turns to face me. His gray eyes lock onto mine, stripping away the chaos of the last ten minutes.

He reaches into his coat pocket. His fingers produce a heavy silver key fob adorned with the Maybach emblem.

He holds it out between us, the metal gleaming under the harsh overhead lights.

"Are you going to stay here and be an ordinary police officer getting bullied," Alexander asks, his tone devoid of any sympathy, "or get in my car and take back your Vance Group?"