Chapter 7 - Sabotage in the Dust
We kept the discovery locked in Julian’s personal vault, waiting for the forensic title attorneys to verify every seal. But Abel Davenport, desperate and erratic, was running out of time. His father’s firm was facing an audit, and Abel’s reputation as the town’s golden boy had crumbled into dust.
On a rainy Thursday night, the first major shipment of imported Carrara marble slabs—worth over four hundred thousand dollars, intended for the grand ballroom floor and master fireplaces—arrived in two flatbed semi-trucks, parked securely inside the gated courtyard of St. Claire Manor.
At 2:00 AM, the perimeter alarm tripped on my phone.
I lived in the carriage house on the property to oversee the work. Without hesitating, I pulled on a raincoat, grabbed an industrial flashlight, and sprinted through the pouring rain across the muddy lawns toward the carriage yard.
Through the mist, I saw two figures dressed in dark hoodies holding sledgehammers, standing near the wooden crates of marble. A third man stood by the gate—and even in the driving rain, I recognized the silhouette and the posture of Abel Davenport.
"Smash the edges!" Abel hissed, his voice cracked with whiskey and panic. "If the stone is fractured, Cross can’t pass final inspection before the winter freeze! The bank will pull his construction loan!"
"Abel!" I screamed, shining the blinding beam of my flashlight directly into his face.
Abel flinched, shielding his eyes with an arm. When he realized it was only me, a sick, frantic sneer twisted his mouth.
"Clara," he barked, motioning for the two hired thugs to keep swinging. "Go back to bed. You ruined my life with that stupid scene at the rehearsal dinner. My father won't even look at me! Do you have any idea how much money you cost me?"
"You cost yourself everything the day you cheated and lied!" I shouted, stepping forward into the mud, my fists clenched. "Step away from those crates, Abel, or you will leave here in handcuffs!"
"With what proof, Clara? Your word against mine?" Abel laughed bitterly, taking a step toward me, raising his arm aggressively. "Who’s going to believe a bitter, hysterical ex-bride—"
He never finished the sentence.
A powerful hand gripped Abel’s collar from behind, jerking him backward with such ferocity that his feet left the muddy gravel. Abel hit the ground with a sickening thud, gasping for air.
Julian Cross stepped over him, dressed in black, looking like an avenging fury in the rain. Behind Julian, four heavily armed private security guards swarmed the two thugs, pinning them against the flatbed trucks before they could raise their sledgehammers.
Julian stared down at Abel, his voice lower than the rumble of thunder overhead.
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"Did you really think," Julian whispered, "that I wouldn't place thermal night-vision cameras around three million dollars' worth of Italian stone, you pathetic amateur?"
***
