Chapter 5 - The Lion in His Den
At 8:45 p.m., the second floor plunged into its nightly ritual of eerie desolation.
The security guards rotated shifts at the end of the corridor, their heavy tactical boots clicking rhythmically against the stone before fading toward the elevators. The storm outside had escalated into a full-blown gale, rain violently lashing the massive panoramic windows, shaking the heavy frames with low, thunderous vibrations.
Autumn slipped into Wren’s bedroom just as the grandfather clock chimed the three-quarter hour.
Wren was already pale as chalk, standing in her nightgown beside the open dollhouse, holding the rosewood music box in her trembling hands.
"Inside the closet," Autumn instructed in a breath of air. "Leave the closet louvered door cracked half an inch. Sit on the edge of your bed. Put the phone on speaker, but turn the volume down to two bars. Hold it against your ear so if anyone looks through the peephole, it looks like you're holding a doll."
Wren obeyed with the robotic precision of a child who had rehearsed survival too many times.
Autumn slipped inside the massive walk-in wardrobe, wedging herself between rows of heavy winter coats. The scent of lavender sachets and mothballs filled her nostrils. Through the narrow slats of the closet door, she had a direct line of sight to Wren’s bed and the digital clock glowing red on the nightstand:
*8:58 PM.*
*8:59 PM.*
The silence in the bedroom was so heavy it felt pressurized.
*9:00 PM.*
A sharp, vibrating buzz cut through the air. *Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*
Wren flinched as if struck by a whip. With shaking fingers, she retrieved the burner phone from behind her pillow. She pressed the green button and raised the device to her ear.
From inside the wardrobe, Autumn strained every nerve to listen. Through the low volume, a synthesized, mechanically altered voice slithered into the room—metallic, cold, and utterly devoid of humanity.
*"Good evening, little sparrow,"* the voice distorted through the speaker.
Wren made a choked, whimpering sound. "P-please..."
*"Quiet,"* the voice hissed. *"Rule number one. You speak only when commanded. Did you take your medicine tonight?"*
"N-no. I... I wasn't given it."
*"Good. We need your mind sharp for the final movement. Tomorrow is Day 13. Your father will be attending the harbor authority banquet. He will return at eleven. On his bedside table will be a silver decanter of scotch."*
Autumn’s fingernails dug into her palms until she drew blood.
*"Inside your music box, under the cylinder mechanism, is a small amber vial. You will take that vial. You will walk up to the third floor while the guards are at the gate. You will pour every drop into the decanter."*
Wren’s breath hitched into a silent, agonizing gasp. "No! You said... you said if I was quiet, Daddy wouldn't get hurt! You promised!"
A cold, electronic chuckle rasped through the line. *"Your father killed your mother, Wren. He cut her brakes because she was going to take you away from him. He is a butcher. And justice must be served. If you do not empty that vial tomorrow night... the men outside your window will come into your room while you sleep. And they will make you scream just like Mommy did on the bridge. Do we understand each other?"*
Wren was trembling so violently she dropped the phone onto the duvet.
*"Do we understand each other, Wren?"* the voice barked.
"Y-yes," Wren sobbed into her hands. "Yes, I understand!"
The call disconnected with a sharp, flat click.
Autumn burst out of the wardrobe, her eyes blazing with fierce, protective fury. She crossed the room in two strides, scooping the shattered little girl into her arms and holding her with bone-crushing strength.
"He's lying, Wren," Autumn whispered fiercely into the child's ear. "Every single word was a lie! Your father didn't kill your mother. They are manipulating you! They want you to do their dirty work so they can take his empire!"
"He's gonna kill us," Wren wailed against Autumn’s neck. "He’s gonna kill Daddy tomorrow!"
"No, he isn't," Autumn said, her voice dropping into a register of icy, absolute resolve. "Because we are ending this tonight."
Autumn grabbed the burner phone and tucked it into her pocket. She picked up the rosewood music box, wedged her thumbnail under the mechanical brass cylinder, and wrenched it upward.
With a snap of wood, the brass plate lifted.
Tucked into the velvet recess was a glass vial no larger than a perfume sample, filled with an odorless, clear amber liquid. Potassium cyanide or concentrated digitalis—something that would induce a sudden, undetectable massive cardiac arrest in a man with Damon Calloway’s high-stress lifestyle.
"Stay here, Wren. Lock this door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me. If anyone tries to pick the lock, scream at the top of your lungs."
"Where are you going?" Wren cried out, clutching Autumn's sleeve.
"I’m going to the lion’s den," Autumn said.
She slipped out into the corridor, bypassed the elevators, and took the service staircase directly to the third floor.
At the landing of the master suite, two private security guards blocked the double mahogany doors—men with tactical sidearms and emotionless expressions.
"Halt," one muttered, stepping into her path. "Mr. Calloway is not to be disturbed under any circumstances."
Autumn didn't flinch. She pulled the rosewood music box and the burner phone from her pocket and held them directly in front of the guard's eyes.
"Step aside," Autumn said, her voice laced with such venom and absolute authority that both guards blinked in surprise. "Or when your boss’s empire burns to the ground tonight, I will ensure he knows you two held the matches."
The guards exchanged a tense, uncertain glance. Before they could raise their hands, the heavy double doors swung open from within.
Damon Calloway stood in the doorway, his silk dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a crystal glass of bourbon in his hand. His gaze was thunderous.
"What is the meaning of this commotion outside my quarters?" Damon growled.
Autumn pushed past the guards, stepping directly into the lion's inner sanctum.
May you like
"Dismiss your men, Mr. Calloway," Autumn said, her chest heaving with adrenaline. "Right now. Unless you want them to watch your entire kingdom collapse."
***
