Chapter 18 - Smoke and Glass
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I backed up slowly until my bare shoulders hit the locked iron doors of the greenhouse, the cold glass vibrating against my skin as rain hammered the roof above us. Every breath in my lungs tasted of damp soil and the sharp, suffocating fumes of gasoline poured all across the stone walkway between us.
"You're insane, Camille," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the trembling barrel of her revolver while my fingers searched blindly behind my back for the heavy iron bolt on the door. "The entire city saw you at the Plaza tonight. If anything happens to me, the police will come straight for you and your father!"
"My father is already boarding a private diplomatic jet to Geneva because of you!" Camille screamed, waving the pistol wildly as tears carved black streaks of mascara down her cheeks. "Wait until they find out what was in those shipping ledgers! Everything was supposed to be mine! Four years ago, when my father had Richard Vance’s car blown off the Queensboro Bridge, he promised me the Vance empire would be handed to us on a silver platter!"
My hand paused for a fraction of a second—not on the door bolt, but on the small smartphone concealed in the hidden side pocket of my gown, where the voice recorder app had been running continuously since I ran out of the library.
"So it was you who slid that threat under my dorm door at NYU four years ago?" I asked loudly, making sure her voice carried clearly over the storm.
"Of course it was me!" Camille spat with venomous pride, stepping closer to the pool of gasoline. "My father’s hitmen wanted to put a bullet in your head alongside those two bodyguards outside your dorm, but I told him a dead student would bring the FBI down on Damon’s neck! Scaring a pathetic little scholarship rat into running away was so much easier! You were supposed to rot in Queens forever, Elena—not come back with a bastard heir to steal my life!"
Outside in the courtyard, two muffled gunshots echoed through the rain, followed by the sound of Damon’s voice roaring my name across the dark gardens: "ELENA!"
Panic flashed across Camille’s manic face as she saw Damon’s tall silhouette sprinting through the storm toward the greenhouse, blood streaking his white dress shirt where a bullet had grazed his shoulder.
"If I can't have him, neither can you!" Camille shrieked.
She hurled the lit brass lantern straight onto the gasoline-soaked stones between us.
May you like
WHOOSH.
A wall of blinding orange flame erupted instantly up the dry cedar trellises and tropical vines, filling the glass dome with thick, toxic black smoke. Camille bolted out through the rear service hatch and jammed an iron garden spade through the outside handles, trapping me inside an inferno as burning glass panels began shattering overhead.
