Chapter 6 - A Dangerous Promotion
The heavy oak doors of the penthouse suite at Gallagher Tower closed with a muted, expensive thud, locking out the glittering, neon-drenched expanse of the Chicago skyline.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of aged bourbon, burning cedar wood from the marble fireplace, and the lingering, sharp tang of antiseptic.
Declan sat shirtless on a velvet armchair while the private physician, a quiet older man named Dr. Vance, carefully stitched a jagged four-inch gash across his right shoulder.
Nora stood rigidly near the floor-to-ceiling windows, clutching a heavy crystal tumbler of ice water she hadn't asked for.
Her ruined silk blouse and soot-stained skirt marked her as a survivor of a war zone, yet her mind was racing through corporate ledgers rather than trauma responses.
“The wound is clean, Mr. Gallagher, but you've lost far too much blood tonight,” Dr. Vance packed his instruments into a battered leather case and snapped it shut. “No physical exertion, no combat, and absolute rest for at least forty-eight hours. If you tear those stitches again, I won't be responsible for the nerve damage.”
Declan didn't even flinch as the final knot was tied.
“Get out, Vance,” he said flatly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Nora across the room.
The doctor packed his supplies without a word, grabbed his coat, and slipped out of the penthouse as quietly as a ghost.
Silence descended upon the massive room, broken only by the crackle of burning logs in the fireplace.
Declan reached for a fresh black dress shirt resting on the armrest, slipping his good arm through the sleeve before awkwardly managing the buttons with one hand.
“You're staring at the ledger again in your head, aren't you?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.
Nora turned from the window, her expression carefully guarded.
“I'm wondering why a multi-billion-dollar logistics firm needs shell companies channeling three million dollars into phantom waste management accounts in the Cayman Islands.”
A slow, humorless smile touched Declan's lips.
“Because not all waste is garbage, Nora. Sometimes, waste is the cost of keeping dirty politicians, corrupt federal marshals, and rival syndicates off our backs so legitimate people like you can work in peace.”
“That money funds bribes,” she stated bluntly.
“That money buys survival,” Declan corrected sharply, pushing himself up from the chair with a suppressed hiss of pain. He walked slowly across the hardwood floor until he stood just inches away from her.
The sheer physical proximity made her pulse spike all over again.
“You could have walked away tonight,” Declan murmured, looking down into her eyes. “When the elevator dropped, when the roof blew open, you could have begged for mercy or screamed like everyone else. Instead, you kept your head, tore your own blouse to bandage me, and stood your ground.”
“I didn't have much of a choice.”
“Everyone always has a choice.” He reached out, his long fingers gently tracing the edge of her collar where soot still smudged her skin. “Most people choose cowardice. You chose steel.”
Nora swallowed hard, fighting the strange, magnetic pull drawing her toward him.
“What happens now, Mr. Gallagher? Do I go back to my cubicle tomorrow morning and pretend I didn't watch you execute two men in a closed elevator?”
May you like
Declan's expression darkened, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that burned right through her defenses.
“No,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow morning, your cubicle is gone. You're moving your things up to the executive floor permanently.”
