Chapter 6 - Shattered Glass
The heavy oak-and-steel front doors of the Montauk retreat didn't just open; they groaned under the immense force of Rory Starks’s boot, splintering inward against the polished marble foyer.
Inside, the house was eerily silent. It was a masterpiece of modern minimalist architecture—floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the roaring ocean, white leather furniture, and expensive modern art that looked more like cold geometry than human expression.
“Susan!” Rory’s voice boomed through the open halls, rich with a dark, thunderous resonance that shook the hanging chandeliers. “Show yourself!”
From the upper gallery overlooking the grand foyer, a soft, mocking laugh drifted down.
Rory looked up. Leaning against the glass railing with a crystal tumbler of amber scotch in her hand stood Susan Starks. She wore a pristine white silk robe, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her expression a mask of bored amusement.
“Rory, darling,” Susan drawled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You really should learn to use the doorbell. This is a private residence, not one of your Brooklyn dockyards.”
Rory took the marble stairs two at a time, his boots echoing sharply against the stone. He didn't draw his gun—not yet. He wanted her close enough to see the terror in her eyes when he dismantled her entire world.
“Where is the main relay?” Rory demanded, stopping just a few feet away from her on the gallery landing.
Susan tilted her head, her blue eyes flashing with malice. “Oh, looking for your little toys? It’s already wiped, big brother. The moment Marcus stopped answering his secure channel, our offshore servers purged every gigabyte of footage. You haven't got a shred of proof.”
Rory stepped closer, towering over her. The sheer physical presence of the man made Susan step back, her back pressing against the cold glass railing overlooking the two-story drop to the foyer below.
“Proof?” Rory laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Susan, I am the proof. I don't need a courtroom or a jury to deal with a traitor who tortured my daughters.”
Susan’s smug composure finally cracked, a flicker of genuine panic flashing across her painted face. She reached behind her back, her fingers wrapping around a heavy bronze sculpture sitting on the console table behind the railing.
“You wouldn't dare touch me,” Susan hissed, her voice rising in pitch. “We share the same blood! Without me, the board will tear you apart from the inside!”
“Let them try,” Rory said, his hand shooting out like lightning to grab her wrist, forcing her fingers away from the bronze statue.
Before Susan could scream, heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs behind Rory. Two of Rory’s elite personal security guards appeared on the landing, followed by a trembling IT specialist holding a ruggedized laptop.
“Mr. Starks,” the technician panted, holding out the screen. “We intercepted the secondary purge cycle before it hit the deep-sea cables. We’ve got the full recording archives, the financial transfers to Marcus, and the audio logs of Susan designing the psychological profile for the teddy bear.”
Rory didn't even look at the screen. He kept his grip locked on his sister’s wrist, his eyes burning into hers.
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“Pack a bag, Susan,” Rory said quietly, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. “You’re going on a very long, very permanent vacation to a private facility of my choosing. And trust me... the security there won't have any teddy bears.”
Susan went completely limp, the glass slipping from her fingers to shatter into a thousand glittering shards against the marble floor far below.
