Chapter 118
Emily Windsor's POV
That scrutinizing gaze made my skin crawl, like a cold snake slithering over me.
I instinctively clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.
"This is her?" His voice was hoarse, carrying a careless indifference.
Anna nodded. "Hurry. Lawrence could come back any minute."
The man didn't spare me another glance. He turned and pulled a neatly folded white service uniform from the shelf behind him, along with a baseball cap and a pair of canvas flats, shoving them all into my arms.
"Put these on." He jerked his chin toward a half-open storage room door in the corner. "Once my guys start the commotion up front and things get chaotic, I'll take you through the kitchen cargo corridor. There's a gray van parked in the B section of the underground garage, third pillar. Got it?"
I clutched the uniform, staring at him without moving.
He made it sound too simple.
I knew this estate's security level better than anyone. Lawrence wouldn't let a fly slip through—how could this man possibly get me out? And who were these "guys" he mentioned? Creating chaos on Lowe family territory wasn't child's play.
I had no confidence, sensing something off about this whole setup.
But I had no other choice.
Anna seemed to notice my hesitation. She walked over, for once without her usual sharp tone, her voice dropping low.
"His name is Marco. He's worked for me for three years. I trust him." She looked at me, a rare urgency flickering in her eyes. "Emily, he'll get you out safely. Go find your Luke, then never come back."
Was Luke even alive? Anna said they hadn't found his body at St. Mary's Private Hospital—so where was he now? Was Lily really dead? Or was Lawrence using lies to systematically dismantle my last shred of will?
I didn't know.
But I knew that if I stayed here, I'd never get the chance to find out.
"Alright." I gripped the uniform tightly and turned toward the storage room.
Inside, boxes of wine and tableware were stacked everywhere, the space so cramped I could barely turn around.
I faced away from the door, quickly peeling off the expensive black mermaid gown and pulling on the white shirt, buttoning it to the very top. I twisted my hair up and stuffed it under the baseball cap.
The moment I slipped on the canvas flats, I looked down at the black gown trampled beneath my feet. The crystals on the hem glinted weakly in the dim light, like shackles Lawrence had forged for me with his own hands—finally cast off.
I was about to push the door open when the overhead light flickered twice, then went out completely.
The storage room plunged into dead silence and darkness.
My hand froze on the doorknob, my heart leaping into my throat.
A power outage?
No, that wasn't right. Lowe family estate had an independent backup power system—it couldn't fail this easily.
I held my breath, straining to listen.
At first, nothing—only my heart hammering against my ribcage.
Then the sounds came.
A muffled gunshot echoed from the distance, as if someone had fired in the direction of the ballroom.
Then a second shot, a third—gunfire erupted like popping beans, mingling with screams, shattering glass, and the thunderous crash of furniture. The cacophony surged down the corridor like a flood.
I froze in place as if struck by lightning, my mind going blank.
This wasn't ordinary troublemaking. This was a shootout.
I dropped into a crouch, wedging myself into the deepest corner of the storage room, hands clamped over my mouth to stifle any sound. In the darkness, my back pressed against the freezing wall, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to burst from my throat.
Outside, the gunfire continued. Anna's scream pierced through several doors—sharp and brief—then cut off abruptly.
Heavy footsteps approached the storage room door.
Someone pounded on it from outside, rattling the entire frame.
"Open up! Now!"
Marco's voice—hoarse, urgent, like something was chasing him.
I sprang from the corner, fingers fumbling for the doorknob in the darkness. The moment I cracked it open, a rough, powerful hand shot through the gap, clamping around my wrist and yanking me bodily from the room.
"Let go of me!" I stumbled as he dragged me forward, my shoulder slamming into the corridor wall. Pain shot through me, forcing a sharp intake of breath.
"You still wanna get out of here alive or not?" Marco didn't look back, his pace frantic like he was fleeing for his life. His voice was shredded by the relentless gunfire in the distance. "Waste another thirty seconds and nobody's leaving!"
I bit down hard, stopped struggling, and forced my legs to keep up.
The corridor was pitch black except for sickly green emergency lights casting wan illumination on scattered plates and broken glass littering the floor. The air reeked of gunpowder, acrid and choking.
As we passed the kitchen, it was already deserted. Flames still burned on unattended burners, and an overturned soup pot had spilled thick liquid across the stainless steel counter. Steam mixed with the stench of blood rolled toward us.
Through the kitchen, around a narrow doorway—concrete steps leading down to the cargo area.
Marco's grip never loosened. He was practically half-dragging, half-carrying me down the stairs.
That's when a roar tore through the night behind us.
"Emily!"