Initiate the liquidation protocol. Lock the Holston accounts.
I hit send, then dropped the phone into my leather bag. The guards stepped up on either side of me, their hands reaching for my arms to force me out of the room I already owned.
CHAPTER 2: The Guards Seized My Arms As Axiom Locked Their Accounts
The guard on my left gripped my bicep. His fingers dug into the coral fabric of my wrap dress, pressing hard enough to leave a bruise. The man on my right moved swiftly to secure my other arm.
"Walk," the first guard said, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.
I did not fight them. I let my phone slip fully into my leather bag and adjusted my posture, ensuring my spine was perfectly straight. I walked. I let them guide me through the parting sea of billionaires, venture capitalists, and legacy heirs. Charlotte Holston stood near the carved ice sculpture in the center of the room, a victorious smile painted across her face. She raised her champagne flute an inch as I passed, drinking in the spectacle of my removal.
Grayson Wells followed a few steps behind us, speaking softly into a radio clipped to his lapel. "Taking the trespasser to the service elevator. Have local PD on standby down there just in case she decides to make a scene at the loading dock."
The jazz quartet resumed playing, the soft notes of a saxophone masking the sound of my exit. The heavy oak doors of the Langford Club suite swung shut behind us, cutting off the warmth and the light, leaving only the sterile, fluorescent glare of the service corridor.
"You can let go now," I said calmly.
"Keep moving," the guard on my left replied, increasing his downward pressure.
"If you do not remove your hand from my arm in the next three seconds," I told him, keeping my voice level, "I will ensure that neither you nor the private security firm that employs you ever works in this city again."
He scoffed, but his grip loosened a fraction.
We reached the service elevator. Grayson stepped around us to press the call button. He adjusted his pristine cuffs, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
"You really thought you could just walk into the Holston mixer?" Grayson asked, not bothering to look at me. "I don't know who you are, or what kind of statement you thought you were making in there, but you just embarrassed yourself in front of half the global market."
"Did I?" I asked.
Grayson turned to me, his patronizing smile returning. "You're being escorted out through the garbage route by men twice your size. I'd say yes."
The elevator dinged. The metal doors slid open, revealing a scuffed interior smelling faintly of bleach and old produce.
Before the guards could push me inside, Grayson’s phone began to vibrate. It wasn't his standard ringtone; it was a blaring, rhythmic alarm that echoed loudly in the concrete hallway. It was the emergency executive override tone, reserved only for catastrophic corporate alerts.
Grayson frowned, pulling the phone from his inner pocket. He looked at the screen, and the color instantly drained from his face. He held up a trembling finger to the guards, signaling them to wait, and answered the call.
"Wells," he said.
He listened for exactly three seconds. His posture collapsed. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes darted toward me, wide and unblinking.
"What do you mean, locked?" Grayson asked, his voice cracking. "It's a weekend. The banking portals shouldn't even be active. No, I understand, but who authorized a freeze on the primary operating accounts? All of them?"
He listened again. I watched a drop of sweat form at his hairline and slide down his temple.
"Axiom?" he whispered. The word sounded like ash in his mouth.