Chapter 7
The Sterling estate was an overwhelming spectacle of extreme wealth, awash in bright, vivid video colors. The sprawling, perfectly manicured lawns were dotted with massive white tents, vibrant floral arrangements, and flowing champagne fountains. The natural, cinematic sunlight caught the glittering jewelry and expensive tailoring of the hundreds of elite guests. Every attendee was a White American, their fair and rosy skin glowing as they laughed and drank, entirely oblivious to the dark, violent kidnapping that had occurred just twenty-four hours prior to secure the family’s legacy.
Naomi and Marcus moved swiftly through the bustling service entrance, blending seamlessly into the chaotic swarm of caterers. Naomi wore a crisp white chef's coat and black trousers, her thick, lustrous black curls tucked securely beneath a neat catering cap. Even in the uniform, her delicate facial features and model-like beauty turned a few heads, but the staff was too panicked about serving the demanding guests to pay her much attention.
"The security hub is down the hall to the left," Marcus whispered, his American accent barely audible over the clattering of silverware in the staging kitchen. "I’m going dark. You have exactly seven minutes to reach the third floor before the shift change. Go."
Naomi nodded, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her bruised ribs. The physical pain of her C-section throbbed with every step, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins masked the agony. She slipped out of the noisy kitchen and stepped into the quiet, opulent hallway of the main mansion.
The interior was a masterclass in cinematic luxury—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and priceless artwork. Naomi moved with purposeful speed, her eyes darting toward the grand staircase.
"Hey! You there!" a sharp, authoritative voice echoed down the corridor.
Naomi froze. She turned slowly to see a heavily built, White American bodyguard in a dark suit marching toward her. His fair, rosy skin was flushed with suspicion.
"Catering staff isn't allowed past the dining hall," the guard demanded, his hand resting instinctively on the radio clipped to his belt. "Let me see your ID badge."
Naomi’s large, expressive dark brown eyes widened in feigned panic. She tapped into her Hollywood-actress grace, offering a breathless, apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, sir. Mrs. Patricia Sterling specifically requested a fresh pitcher of iced water for the second-floor sitting room. She seemed very upset."
The guard frowned, his hand leaving the radio. Patricia’s volatile temper was well known among the staff. "She's supposed to be in the garden. Are you sure?"
"I would never argue with Mrs. Sterling," Naomi said softly, stepping closer.
As the guard relaxed his posture, Naomi moved with blinding, desperate speed. She pulled the heavy black handgun from her waistband and drove the solid steel barrel directly into the side of the guard’s neck, striking the pressure point with terrifying accuracy.
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The man gasped, his eyes rolling back as his knees buckled. Naomi caught his heavy frame before he could crash onto the marble floor, dragging him silently into a nearby utility closet.
She took a deep, shaky breath, adjusting her uniform. The first obstacle was cleared, but the hardest part was still ahead. She stepped out of the closet and began her ascent up the grand staircase, moving toward the third floor where her son was being held captive. The bright, cinematic lighting of the mansion guided her path to vengeance.
