Chapter 8
He walked toward Wyatt’s toolbox, took a silver cigarette case from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and deliberately flicked the spent match into Wyatt’s tray of clean bolts.
“Tell me, mechanic,” Landon said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “How much did she pay you? Five hundred bucks? A thousand? Did she tell you that marrying into the Holloway estate makes you rich? Because all she bought you is a direct ticket to bankruptcy court.”
Wyatt didn’t blink. He stood six feet tall, completely still, the muscles in his jaw ticking once.
“You’re in the way of the lift,” Wyatt said evenly. His voice was a calm, low rumble that carried an unnerving, subterranean weight.
Landon scoffed. “Is that right? Well, let me educate you on how the real world works, boy. My firm holds the commercial paper on half the industrial leases on this block. By noon tomorrow, the secondary lien on this pathetic garage will be transferred to Pierce Capital. I will revoke your operating certificate, call your equipment loans, and have the city marshal padlock these doors before you can wipe that soot off your nose.”
Piper stepped between them, her eyes flashing with pure fury.
“Don’t you dare threaten him, Landon!” she hissed, pointing a sharp finger at his chest. “He has nothing to do with this. Your dispute is with me.”
“My dispute is with anyone who stands between me and what belongs to me,” Landon snapped, his patrician veneer cracking to reveal the ugly, predatory entitlement beneath. “Your father promised me your hand and the logistics proxies before his heart gave out. You think a ten-dollar courthouse stunt is going to stop me?”
Beatrice stepped forward, opening an alligator-skin clutch and pulling out a heavy, multi-page legal document with blue backing.
“Enough of this circus, Piper,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp command. “You’ve had your little tantrum. Tonight is the annual Holloway Foundation Gala at the St. Regis. Five hundred of the city’s top investors will be in attendance, including the executive committee of Brandt Global, who are formally acquiring Holloway Logistics’ regional shipping lanes.”
At the mention of Brandt Global, Wyatt’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained motionless, watching the scene unfold like a chess grandmaster watching an amateur move into a checkmate.
“This document,” Beatrice continued, tapping the blue paper, “is a voluntary relinquishment of your voting trust in exchange for a five-million-dollar cash annuity. You will dress appropriately, you will appear at the gala tonight on Landon’s arm, and you will sign this before the board.”
Piper crossed her arms, laughing in her stepmother’s face. “And if I refuse?”
Landon took a step forward, his smile turning cruel and triumphant.
“If you refuse,” Landon said, pointing his silver lighter at Wyatt, “I will file a federal conspiracy and fraud lawsuit against this mechanic. I’ll allege commercial extortion, falsification of marriage records to obstruct an SEC-regulated corporate transfer, and predatory inducement. It won’t matter if it holds up in trial—the legal fees alone will cost three hundred thousand dollars. He’ll lose his shop, his tools, his home, and he’ll spend the next three years answering subpoenas in federal court.”
He leaned in closer to Piper, his voice dropping to a hiss.
“You want to play the martyr, Piper? Go ahead. But this gutter rat is the one who’s going to bleed for it. You show up tonight at eight o’clock. You sign the transfer. Or your little husband spends the winter under a bridge.”
Piper’s breath caught in her throat. Her fists clenched so hard her nails bit through the palms of her hands.
The sheer, sadistic cruelty of it made the room spin. They knew they couldn't break her spirit—so they were aiming their weapons at the innocent working man who had simply done her a favor for twenty dollars.
Before she could speak, Wyatt moved.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise a fist. He simply took two silent, measured steps forward, placing his massive frame directly between Landon and Piper.
The temperature in the garage plummeted.
Wyatt looked down at Landon from his full height, his hazel eyes completely devoid of human warmth. There was something in the absolute, predatory stillness of his posture that made Landon freeze mid-breath.
“The gala,” Wyatt said quietly. “Eight o’clock?”
Landon swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to hold the mechanic’s gaze, though he forced a sneer to cover his unease. “Eight o’clock sharp. Emerald Ballroom.”
“We’ll be there,” Wyatt said.
Beatrice smirked, tucking the documents back into her clutch. “Smart boy. At least the hired help understands the food chain. Don’t bother renting a tuxedo, darling—you won’t make it past the coat check anyway.”
With a final, dismissive wave of her manicured hand, Beatrice turned and clicked back out to the Maybach. Landon gave Piper one last triumphant, lingering look before following her into the car.
The heavy doors slammed shut, and the two luxury sedans roared away down the Queens gravel, leaving a cloud of gray dust in their wake.
***
Silence fell over the bay.
The only sound was the distant rumble of a freight train on the elevated tracks.
Piper stood frozen on the concrete, trembling from head to foot with pure, incandescent rage.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she turned to Wyatt. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears of furious frustration. “Wyatt, I am so sorry. I dragged you into this. I thought I was protecting myself, but I just painted a target on your back.”
She reached out, grabbing his forearms, looking up at him with desperate urgency.
“Pack your things. You don’t have to go near that gala. I can find a pro-bono labor lawyer to shield your business. Landon is a monster, but he can’t touch you if you leave the jurisdiction until—”
“Piper,” Wyatt interrupted.
His voice was like a warm anchor in a storm. He reached up, taking her hands from his arms and folding them into his large, calloused palms.
“Look at me.”
Piper swallowed, forcing herself to meet his steady hazel eyes.
“Do I look scared to you?” Wyatt asked softly.
She blinked. “No. But you don’t understand how men like Landon operate. They don’t fight fair. They have infinite money, infinite lawyers, and zero conscience.”
A slow, devastatingly faint smile touched the corner of Wyatt’s mouth.
“Money and lawyers aren’t armor, Piper. They’re just paper. And paper burns.”
He gently released one of her hands to tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against the soft curve of her jaw with quiet reverence.
“You’ve been fighting these bastards alone for six months,” he murmured, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that took her breath away. “You’re not alone anymore. We’re going to that gala tonight.”
“Wyatt, you heard Beatrice—they’ll have armed private security at the doors. They’ll try to humiliate you. They’ll treat you like dirt.”
“Let them try,” Wyatt said calmly. “You have a plan for tonight, don’t you?”
Piper’s breath hitched. She pulled her shoulders back, her fiery resolve reigniting like a struck match.
“I do,” she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “My father kept the original 1994 founding corporate charter in a safety deposit box at the Manhattan Trust on 42nd Street. Not a digital copy—the physical parchment with the embossed corporate seal. Section nine, paragraph four states that the moment I present proof of legal marriage to the board of directors, the voting shares bypass the executor and vest directly to me.”
