My Parents Skipped the Funeral of My Husband and Two Children for My Sister’s Birthday, but Six Months Later, One Headline Made Them Panic When They Discovered What I Had Done. / Chapter 62 / 121

Chapter 62 - The Sovereign Creditor

The crimson dot danced on the center of my chest, searing through the salt-crusted wool of my jacket like an ember.

"Claire, down!" Ethan roared, his body slamming into mine before the crack of the warship's deck gun could register in the freezing air.

We tumbled over the jagged granite shelf just as a high-velocity tungsten round pulverized the boulder where I had stood a fraction of a second prior. The concussive blast detonated like thunder against the cliffs, showering us in razor-sharp stone shards and burning sulfur. The radio handset lay smashed ten feet away, but the speaker had not died; it sputtered with an eerie, unbothered calm through the static.

*[Manners, Ethan,]* the aristocrat’s voice chided smoothly from the broken casing. *[If we intended to turn Victoria’s triumphant heir into chum, you wouldn't have heard the shell whistling. That was merely punctuation.]*

Down below the sea wall, the twin tactical assault craft breached the foam. Their low-profile hulls skimmed the black swells with predatory grace, painted matte gray without insignia or national flags. Men in pressurized maritime combat rigs poured onto the slippery rocks of the cove, their assault rifles raised in tight, overlapping fields of fire. They didn't move like government agents or private mercenaries; their discipline was mechanical, terrifyingly silent, and precise.

Ethan pulled me behind the remains of a collapsed gun emplacement. Blood dripped into his left eye from a laceration across his brow, but his jaw remained clenched like an iron vice. "We have zero cover if they bring the frigate's autocannons to bear," he whispered, checking the empty chamber of his sidearm before throwing the useless weapon aside. "They outgun us a hundred to one. Who the hell are these people, Claire?"

"They aren't Victoria's allies," I said, my heart slamming against my ribs as the cold truth fell into place. "Victoria wasn't the apex. She was a middle manager."

A figure emerged from the leading assault craft as it docked against the rusted ladder of the island’s pier. He didn't wear tactical gear. Instead, he stepped into the biting Maine sleet in a tailored charcoal cashmere overcoat, holding an ebony cane capped with a silver wolf’s head. His silver hair was swept back from a sharp, patrician face, and cold amber eyes scanned the heights with lazy amusement.

He raised a megaphone with gloved hands, his voice echoing off the ancient granite walls.

"Mrs. Vance! I am Julian Croft. Director of the Archon Syndicate’s Sovereign Liquidations," the man called out, his tone polite enough for a London drawing room. "Your family spent four decades borrowing our capital to build their political thrones and corporate facades. Victoria put up a collateral clause she neglected to mention in her family reunions. Put your hands on your heads and step to the ledge. Or I order the frigate to level this rock into the Atlantic shelf."

Ethan looked at me, his eyes burning with silent defiance. But I looked down at the frigate’s dual automated turrets tracking our position.