Chapter 3 - The Race Against Time
“Arthur, are you insane? We are live-streaming this to three hundred people!”
My best man, David, intercepted me near the service elevator. He looked panicked, adjusting his boutonniere as he blocked my path. “The pastor is at the altar, Rebecca is hyperventilating in the green room because she thinks you got cold feet, and you want to leave?”
“David, listen to me very carefully,” I said, grabbing his shoulders. I didn't have time for explanations, but I needed an ally. “Emily is in trouble. Noah just gave me this.” I tapped my inner pocket. “I have to go to her house right now.”
David stared at me, his mouth opening and closing. “Emily? But she called the caterer an hour ago saying she’d be late due to a migraine!”
“That wasn’t Emily,” I growled, the pieces falling together with terrifying clarity. Rebecca had access to Emily’s phone. Rebecca had engineered this entire timeline. “Look after Noah. Do not let Rebecca near him under any circumstances. If I’m not back in an hour, call the police and tell them to raid my estate.”
Before David could process my words, I pushed past him, scooped Noah up into my arms, and bolted for the service stairs. Every muscle in my body strained against the weight of the terrifying reality: my daughter was alone, unresponsive, and trapped in a web spun by the woman I had planned to marry in twenty minutes.
In the back of the town car, as Marcus navigated the bustling midday traffic toward Emily's townhouse, I pulled the black flash drive from my pocket. My hands shook as I slid it into the portable laptop I always carried for emergency business briefs.
The screen flickered. A single folder appeared, labeled simply: IF_I_DONT_CALL_3PM.
Inside were three files: a digital document, a high-resolution audio recording, and a video file dated just last night.
I clicked the audio file first.
The speakers hissed with static, followed by the unmistakable sound of muffled weeping. Then, a voice spoke—calm, deliberate, and chillingly familiar. It was Rebecca.
“You think your father’s empire is going to you and your brat, Emily? Open your eyes. He’s signing the pre-nup transfer tomorrow morning after the ceremony. By tomorrow night, this house, the accounts, everything will belong to me. And if you try to warn him... well, let's just say this little chamomile tea blend you love so much works wonders for a deep, permanent sleep.”
Emily’s voice, weak and terrified, answered: “You’re insane. I’m calling him right now—”
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A sharp crash echoed through the recording, followed by a sickening thud and a gurgle of distress. Then silence.
I sat frozen in the backseat of the speeding car, the world outside melting into a blur of concrete and sunlight. My daughter had been poisoned. And I had been walking down the aisle to marry her executioner.
