Chapter 7 - Fire on the Terrace
The cold night air hit Kayla’s face like a physical blow as she stepped through the sliding glass doors of the drawing room onto the stone terrace. Behind her, half-hidden in the shadows of the floor-to-ceiling drapery, Gunther and Victor stood with their weapons holstered, watching every move she made.
Standing near the edge of the stone balustrade, shivering in a high-end designer coat that was stained with soot, was Jacqueline. Her blonde hair was wild, tangled by the wind, and her eyes were wide, manic, and bloodshot. In her right hand, she clutched a glass bottle filled with a yellowish liquid, a rag stuffed into the neck, dripping with lighter fluid. A cheap plastic lighter flickered in her left hand.
“Where is he?!” Jacqueline screamed, her voice cracking as the wind whipped across the hills. “Where is Gunther?! Tell that coward to come out here and face me himself!”
Kayla kept her hands raised gently, palms forward, stepping carefully onto the cold stone. She walked with the quiet, practiced grace of someone used to handling volatile situations without escalating them.
“Mr. Woods isn't coming out,” Kayla said, her voice calm, clear, and surprisingly steady. “And throwing a Molotov cocktail at a modern fortress isn't going to get him back, Jacqueline. It’s only going to get you a one-way ticket to a maximum-security federal pen.”
Jacqueline whipped her head around, her manic gaze locking onto Kayla’s gray maid’s uniform. A harsh, ugly laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, look. A little cleaning rag thinks she can talk to me. Who the hell are you? Are you one of his new toys? Did he keep you in the basement until he got bored with the last one?”
“I’m the executive household coordinator,” Kayla replied smoothly, closing the distance between them by another three feet. “And I’m the person telling you that you’re holding a lighter over an open bottle of fuel in forty-mile-an-hour winds. You’re going to burn yourself alive before you even scratch the glass.”
“Shut up!” Jacqueline shrieked, taking a wild step forward, the flame flickered dangerously close to the soaked rag. “He used me! He threw me away like garbage after three years! He doesn't love anyone! He’s a cold, empty shell!”
“You’re right,” a deep, resonant voice echoed from the shadows of the doorway.
Kayla froze. Gunther stepped out onto the terrace, his navy suit jacket buttoned, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets. He looked completely unbothered by the blazing threat inches away from his face.
Jacqueline gasped, her eyes widening as she turned the bottle toward him. “Gabe! You... you came out.”
“I came out to tell you that your Uber is waiting at the front gates,” Gunther said, his voice flat, devoid of any human warmth. “Victor already cleared your apartment of your belongings. The Cartier watch is in the trunk. If you drop that bottle on my terrace, Victor won't call the police. He’ll throw you over this cliff.”
Jacqueline’s hands trembled violently. The manic fury in her eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden, crushing wave of humiliation and despair. She looked at the heavy glass bottle, then at Gunther’s icy expression, and finally at Kayla standing calmly beside her.
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“You’re a monster, Gunther,” Jacqueline whispered, her voice breaking. “You’ll die alone in this cold house, and no one will ever shed a tear for you.”
With a bitter sob, Jacqueline dropped the bottle onto the grass below the terrace—where the fuel sputtered out harmlessly against the wet earth—and turned, running blindly down the dark wooded trail toward the gates.
