Chapter 7 - The Lion's Den
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The weight of the platinum band on her left ring finger felt heavier than lead.
Vivien sat in the leather passenger seat of Sebastian’s private town car, watching the rain wash down the dark glass.
It was seven o'clock the following morning.
The city was waking up to a gray, freezing drizzle that turned the gutters along Michigan Avenue into rushing streams of brown slush.
On the seat between them lay a freshly printed copy of the Chicago Sun-Times.
On page three, beneath the business section, was a photograph of Botanica Lux.
The headline read:
LOGISTICS TITAN SEBASTIAN CROSS ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO LOCAL BOTANICAL DESIGNER VIVIEN ADLER.
Vivien picked up the paper with trembling fingers, staring at her own name in black ink.
“How did you get this printed in eight hours?” she whispered.
Sebastian didn't look away from his tablet, his thumb scrolling through shipping manifests.
“I own twelve percent of the publishing house,” he replied without looking up.
“And the city editor owes me three favors from an investigation that disappeared two years ago.”
The car turned sharply off the boulevard, pulling into the cracked asphalt lot of the 14th District Police Precinct.
Vivien’s breath hitched in her throat.
The brick building was ugly, squat, and surrounded by dozens of blue-and-white patrol cruisers.
“What are we doing here?” Vivien asked, her voice tight with rising panic.
“You said Gallagher was reviewing his accounts.”
“Gallagher is inside,” Sebastian said, setting his tablet aside and buttoning his tailored black wool overcoat.
“He spent the night trying to figure out which of his offshore accounts were frozen by the Illinois Gaming Board.”
“He needs to understand the new reality of his life.”
“You're going to confront him here? In his own precinct?!”
“A predator only respects a larger predator, Miss Adler,” Sebastian said, reaching across the leather seat.
His long fingers closed over hers, his thumb resting gently against the heavy diamond ring on her hand.
His skin was warm, completely steady, carrying an electric confidence that seemed to anchor the trembling inside her bones.
“Keep your head up,” he murmured, his amber eyes boring into hers.
“You are not the terrified girl behind the flower counter anymore.”
“You belong to the Cross estate now.”
The front door of the car was opened by Paul, who held a massive black umbrella over the pavement.
Sebastian stepped out first, offering his arm to Vivien.
Vivien took a deep, steadying breath, stepped into the freezing rain, and linked her arm through his.
They walked up the granite steps of the precinct together, their boots clicking in rhythm against the wet stone.
The heavy glass doors pushed open, releasing the smell of burnt coffee, wet floor wax, and cheap cigarettes.
The front desk sergeant, a beefy man with a graying mustache, looked up with an impatient scowl that died instantly on his face.
His jaw dropped, his eyes darting from Sebastian’s face down to Vivien’s emerald-cut diamond.
“Mr... Mr. Cross,” the sergeant stammered, scrambling to his feet so fast he knocked over a styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee.
“Sergeant Miller,” Sebastian greeted smoothly, not breaking his stride.
“Tell Captain Miller that Mr. Cross has arrived to collect Detective Gallagher’s badge.”
The bullpen fell into absolute, suffocating silence.
Twenty detectives and patrol officers stopped typing, stopped talking on landline phones, and turned like mannequins toward the front counter.
At the far desk near the holding cells, Ryan Gallagher sat with a three-day stubble, dark circles bruising the skin under his bloodshot eyes.
He looked up, saw Vivien standing beside Sebastian Cross, and froze as if he had been struck by lightning.
His eyes moved from her face down to her left hand resting on Sebastian’s dark cashmere lapel.
The diamond caught the flickering fluorescent light of the ceiling, flashing like a beacon of pure, untouchable authority.
Gallagher slowly stood up from his desk, his chair screeching against the dirty linoleum.
His hand instinctively twitched toward his hip holster.
Before his fingers could even touch the leather, the door to the Captain’s office flew open.
Captain Thomas Miller stepped out, his face as pale as a fresh sheet of paper, a sweating manila folder clutched in his trembling hands.
“Ryan,” Captain Miller snapped, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated terror.
“Unclip your weapon.”
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“Place it on the desk.”
“Right now.”
