The Ruthless CEO's Forgotten Amnesiac Wife

Grace shoved the boys behind her back.

She crept toward the thick glass wall of the VIP lounge, pressing her shoulder against the frame.

Peered through the frosted stripes.

Ten massive men in identical black suits marched down the corridor. Earpieces coiled behind their ears. Movement precise, lethal – ex-special forces, or worse.

The lead man held a radio to his mouth. His face was carved from violence.

Grace’s lungs seized.

Right. Dangerous. They’d hurt the boys.

The boy on her left tugged her shirt hem. Pointed a small finger toward a gray ‘Employees Only’ door at the lounge’s rear.

The bespectacled boy pulled up a blueprint on his tablet. “Corridor leads to underground parking,” he whispered.

No time to question a child hacking airport schematics. Survival instinct roared, drowning the tremor in her hands.

Grace dropped to her knees, ripped open her duffel.

Muscle memory took over. Years of stage combat, prop wrangling, desperate scrabbling – channeled into frantic disguise.

She yanked out a massive khaki trench coat. Shoved the smallest boy inside, buttoning it to his chin.

Dug out a vintage silk scarf. Wrapped it tightly around the left boy’s head, covering his hair, jammed cheap plastic sunglasses onto his face.

Snatched her wide-brimmed straw hat, crammed it onto the bespectacled boy’s head.

She pulled her gray hoodie up, snapping a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. The fabric felt flimsy armor against the terror clawing her throat.

Through the glass, the lead bodyguard pointed at the lounge doors.

Ten yards.

Grace sucked in a breath like shrapnel. Scooped the smallest boy into her left arm. Grabbed the other two’s hands with her right.

Crouched low, using the potted palms as a shield – a trick learned dodging stage managers and paparazzi.

She moved fast toward the gray door.

A bodyguard outside stopped. Head turned. Eyes locked onto the gaps between fronds.

Grace’s heart stuttered.

She slammed back against the wall, pulling the boys flat against her legs, breath trapped in her chest.

The bespectacled boy reached into his pocket. A small black device. Button pressed.

Outside: The bodyguard doubled over, ripping out his earpiece, face contorted by a burst of agonizing static.

Go!

Grace shoved the gray door open, dragging the boys into the bleach-scented, dusty dark.

Behind them: the VIP lounge doors crashed open.

“GONE!” a voice roared.

Grace ran.

Boots slapped concrete. She half-carried, half-dragged the boys down the narrow hall.

The boy in her arms wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Soft, breathless giggles vibrated against her neck – a bizarre counterpoint to the pounding of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears.

Grace clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shh!” Cold sweat snaked down her spine.

The heavy metal fire door loomed. Green EXIT sign glowed.

She hit the crash bar with her shoulder.

The door flew open. Cold, damp garage air slapped her face.

She stepped onto concrete.

Two blinding beams SNAPPED on – searing her retinas. She flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away, the sudden agony a white-hot spike through her fragile nerves.

A massive, armored black Maybach glided forward in absolute silence.

It stopped inches from her knees, blocking the exit.

The rear passenger door and the front passenger door popped open simultaneously.

More men in black suits poured out, forming an impassable wall around Grace and the boys.

The tinted window of the still-closed rear driver’s side door began to lower silently.

A man sat in the shadows within.

His side profile was carved from arctic ice. Cold. Brutal. Terrifyingly still.