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 96 / 121

Chapter 96 - The Glass Menagerie

The air pressure inside the corridor shifted violently as pneumatic locks engaged along the length of the gantry.

*"Walk forward, Claire,"* Julian’s voice purred over the tannoy. *"Leave your guard dog behind, or I press the emergency flush button on the medical pod currently tethered in your aircraft’s holding pattern. Yes, my sweet sister, did you really think your transport's flight avionics were uncompromised? I own the software that keeps your husband breathing. One keystroke, and the oxygen pump delivers pure nitrogen."*

Ethan lunged toward the blast door, attempting to wedge a breaching tool into the gap, but I put a firm hand against his chest.

"Stay here," I commanded, my eyes locked on the illuminated corridor ahead. "Find the sub-level overrides. If he cuts the plane's link, you manually bridge the satellite signal through their local array."

"Claire, it's an ambush," Ethan snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. "He will kill you the second you step into his line of sight."

"He wants to gloat first," I said quietly, checking the secondary blade tucked beneath my forearm sheath. "Narcissists cannot execute their masterpieces without an audience. And I am going to give him the finale he deserves."

I stepped through the sliding pressure gate, which sealed instantly behind me, separating me from Ethan and the assault team.

The corridor opened into a breathtaking, cavernous observation sanctuary carved into the highest level of the drilling platform. A two-story panoramic wall of reinforced blast-resistant glass looked out over the black, furious expanse of the North Sea. Inside, the space was decorated with the grotesque opulence of a modern emperor: Persian rugs spread over industrial decking, low-slung Italian leather lounges, and a grand mahogany desk adorned with crystal decanters of vintage scotch.

Standing before the glass, his hands clasped behind the back of a tailored charcoal overcoat, stood Julian.

He looked barely older than the day he had vanished. His jaw was cleanly shaven, his posture arrogant, his eyes carrying that same petulant, aristocratic cruelty that our parents had always excused as the brilliance of a prodigy.

On the desk between us sat a heavy, stainless-steel cylinder. Inside its transparent core, a single vial of iridescent crimson liquid caught the ambient light.

The antidote.

"You look tired, Claire," Julian said without turning around. "Mourning suit didn't suit you back then, and this tactical nonsense certainly doesn't flatter you now. You always lacked Evelyn’s flair for presentation."

"Where is the master key for the aircraft's medical pod, Julian?" I asked, my gun held steady at my hip, trained directly on the center of his back.

He turned slowly, a condescending smirk playing on his lips as he poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Put the gun away, little sister. If my heart rate exceeds one hundred and ten beats per minute, the telemetry system transmits a self-destruct command to the medical pod. David suffocates before your bullet's echo leaves this room."