THE SCRATCHED RING: A CEO'S RECKONING

The heavy lock clicked into place. We were trapped in Room 104.

The heart monitor beeped steadily. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Charles’s voice crackled through the room’s two-way intercom system.

“I have to admit, Evelyn, I didn't think you’d make it this far,” Charles gloated, his voice dripping with condescension. “But this is actually quite poetic. A tragic gas leak at the Havenwood facility claims the life of the beloved CEO, her estranged long-lost husband, and his unfortunate child. A terrible accident.”

“You won't get away with this, Charles!” I yelled at the intercom. “I have the original deed! The company belongs to Daniel and me!”

Charles laughed. “The deed is irrelevant, Evie. Why do you think I forged Dad’s will in the first place? Dad knew I was using the shipping routes for the Zurich cartel. He was going to turn me over to the Feds and hand the keys to the carpenter. I couldn't let that happen.”

Answer one, open two. My father hadn't died of a sudden stroke twenty-five years ago. Charles had murdered him too, right before he burned my house down.

“You’re a monster,” I whispered, holding Daniel’s trembling hand.

“I’m a pragmatist,” Charles corrected. “Now, Daniel’s heart is already failing. The explosive is tied to his biometric monitor. If his heart rate spikes into panic, the bomb triggers. If his heart stops, the bomb triggers. If you try to open the door, the bomb triggers. Enjoy your final moments, family.”

The intercom clicked off.

I looked at Daniel. His face was covered in a cold sweat, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his heart rate steady. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. The machine was picking up his fear.

“Evie,” Daniel rasped, gripping my hand with surprising strength. “I’m sorry. I tried to build a trap for him. I spent twenty-five years living as a ghost, using the money your mother gave me to buy the land under all of his distribution centers under dummy corporations. I was going to hand the deeds to the FBI. But my heart gave out before I could finish the transfer.”

Reversal.

Daniel wasn't just hiding. He had spent two decades meticulously dismantling Charles’s empire from the shadows, buying the very earth Charles’s illegal empire stood on.

“You did enough, my love,” I cried, pressing my forehead against his. “You fought so hard.”

“We have to stop the bomb,” Ben said, his small hands tracing the wire leading from the monitor to the door. “Can we cut it?”

“No,” Daniel gasped. “It’s a closed-circuit loop. If you cut the wire, the circuit breaks, and it detonates.”

The monitor began beeping faster. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Daniel was fading. The drugs they had given him were pushing his heart toward a lethal tachycardia.

“I need you to stay calm, Daniel,” I pleaded, stroking his hair. “Look at me. Look at my eyes. Think about our kitchen. Think about the morning you burned the toast and we ate ice cream for breakfast.”

Daniel offered a weak, beautiful smile. The beeping slowed down slightly, but he was incredibly pale. “I love you, Evie. I never stopped.”

Suddenly, the sound of a violent scuffle echoed from the hallway outside.

A gunshot rang out. Then another.

A heavy body slammed against our door.

“Charles?!” a voice roared from the other side.

It was Marcus.

“You killed my brother!” Marcus screamed.

We heard the sickening sound of flesh hitting bone. Charles groaned in pain.

“Marcus, stop!” Charles yelled. “If you shoot me, the dead man’s switch triggers the bomb!”

“I don't care about the bomb,” Marcus growled.

BANG.

Another gunshot. Charles screamed in agony.

Through the small glass window of the door, I saw Charles collapse against the glass, blood smearing down the pane.

He slid to the floor, dropping the remote detonator. It skittered under the gap of our door and slid onto the linoleum floor of our room.

Ben didn't hesitate. He dove for the detonator, scooping it up into his small hands.

“I got it!” Ben yelled.

But as Ben grabbed the trigger, Daniel let out a sharp gasp. His eyes rolled back in his head.

His hand went limp in mine.

The heart monitor flatlined. A long, continuous, terrifying tone filled the room. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wrapping my arms around Ben, waiting for the fire. Waiting for the explosion.

But the explosion never came.

Instead, the deafening sound of a breaching charge blew the windows of the room completely out.

Men in heavy black tactical gear swarmed through the shattered glass, their weapons drawn, flashlights cutting through the darkness.

“FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! SECURE THE DEVICE!”

A bomb squad technician ripped the detonator from Ben’s hands and jammed a bypass key into the monitor, officially neutralizing the C4 on the door.

The continuous beep of the flatline was suddenly drowned out by the chaotic shouting of federal agents swarming the hallway, arresting a bleeding Charles and taking Marcus into custody.

But I didn't care about the FBI. I didn't care about Charles.