Chapter 3 - The Ambush at the Job Site
By 7:30 a.m. Monday, the Dallas sky had cleared to a pale, washed-out blue.
I sat in the parked SUV outside the corporate headquarters of Vance-Sterling Commercial Construction off the North Central Expressway. My hair was blown out smooth, falling forward to graze my left jawline. Beneath my makeup—layers of high-coverage clinical concealer applied with surgical care—the bruise had turned a sickly shade of yellow-green, the swelling somewhat subdued by forty-eight hours of alternating ice packs and arnica gel.
My phone, resting on the console, buzzed with incoming alerts.
Forty-seven missed calls from Evan.
Twelve voicemails from Denise.
Six messages from my mother, oscillating between theatrical weeping and furious demands for a family sit-down at their church.
I didn't open a single one.
In my purse lay a signed copy of the Temporary Ex Parte Protective Order issued by a Dallas County district judge late Saturday afternoon. Evan was legally prohibited from coming within five hundred feet of my person, my vehicle, my residence, and my place of employment.
I stepped out of the vehicle, smoothing the lapels of my tailored charcoal blazer.
I had built my career over nine years at Vance-Sterling. Despite the "Vance" on the building's exterior—my father Arthur held a non-executive minority share—the powerhouse behind the firm was Victoria Sterling, a fifty-eight-year-old iron-willed titan who had turned a small regional concrete operation into a three-hundred-million-dollar empire.
When I entered the glass atrium on the fourth floor, the receptionist, a cheerful woman named Brenda, smiled brightly. "Morning, Paige! Oh, there's a delivery for you already."
She pointed toward the reception counter. Sitting in the center of the polished quartz was an extravagant arrangement of two dozen white lilies and pale pink peonies—the exact flowers from my wedding bouquet.
Tucked into the foliage was an envelope with my name written in Evan's familiar, hurried handwriting.
A small, heavy velvet box from Tiffany & Co. rested against the vase.
"The courier brought it thirty minutes ago," Brenda whispered, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. "The honeymoon glow looks good on you, honey! You've got him wrapped around your finger."
My stomach turned.
I didn't touch the velvet box. I didn't open the envelope.
"Brenda," I said evenly, keeping my tone entirely neutral, "please have building maintenance take these down to the dumpster behind the loading dock."
Brenda’s smile froze. Her eyes darted from the expensive blooms to my face. "The... the dumpster? Paige, that's Tiffany's. And the flowers must have cost three hundred—"
"The dumpster, please. Both the flowers and the box."
Before Brenda could recover her voice, the elevator doors at the end of the lobby chimed.
Two men stepped out.
The first was Evan Mercer.
He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, his hair neatly styled, looking every bit the rising account executive. But his tie was slightly crooked, and dark shadows ringed his eyes. Behind him, looking smug in a designer bomber jacket and designer sneakers, was his brother Grant.
My breath caught in my throat for half a second. The phantom ache in my cheek spiked, cold and sharp.
Grant saw me first. A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the exact same smirk he had worn across the dinner table before Evan struck me.
"See?" Grant murmured loud enough to carry across the quiet reception area. "Told you she'd be here playing the corporate martyr."
"Paige," Evan said, stepping forward quickly, his hands extended, palms up in a performance of desperate supplication. "Thank God. You haven't answered your phone in three days. Do you have any idea what you've put my mother through? She hasn't slept."
He took another step toward the reception desk.
"Stop right there, Evan," I said. My voice was low, steady, and loud enough to cause Brenda to snap her head up.
"Baby, please," Evan pleaded, modulating his tone into that smooth, reasonable cadence he used when pitching clients. "Let's go into your office. We don't need to air our dirty laundry in front of your colleagues. We had an argument. Things got out of hand. I brought you something—I know how much you wanted that tennis bracelet."
He glanced at the counter, noticing the velvet box had not been opened.
"I don't want the bracelet, Evan," I said, stepping back so the solid reception desk remained between us. "And you have sixty seconds to turn around, walk back into that elevator, and leave this building."
Grant scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the elevator wall. "Come on, Paige. The drama queen act is getting old. You threw a five-thousand-dollar dining table across the room over nothing. Evan's here being the bigger man, apologizing to you in front of your office, and you're still acting like an entitled brat."
"Grant, shut up," Evan hissed under his breath, though he didn't look at his brother. He kept his eyes locked on mine, stepping closer until his knuckles rested on the reception counter. His voice dropped to a harsh, warning whisper. "Paige, you are embarrassing me. My mother has family coming into town for Sunday brunch, and you are going to be there. We are husband and wife. You do not dictate terms to me."
"Mr. Mercer," Brenda stammered, finally sensing the absolute toxicity radiating across the marble floor. "I... I can call security—"
"Stay out of this, Brenda," Evan snapped, his corporate veneer cracking instantly. He reached across the counter, his fingers lunging to grab my forearm. "Paige, you are coming downstairs right now. We are going to my car, and we are going to fix this."
His fingers grazed my sleeve.
I didn't flinch. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out the folded legal document, and slapped it down onto the counter directly beneath his outstretched hand.
The crack of the paper echoed in the lobby.
"Do you know what that is, Evan?" I asked, my voice ringing clear and crystalline through the lobby.
Evan blinked down at the blue-backed legal document.
"It's a Temporary Ex Parte Protective Order issued by Judge Martinez in the 301st District Court on Saturday afternoon," I said, looking directly into his blue eyes. "You are in direct violation of Section 85 of the Texas Family Code simply by standing on this floor. You are within five hundred feet of me."
Evan's face drained of color. "You... you went to the police?"
"I went to the hospital first," I replied, tilting my chin upward so the bright fluorescent lighting hit my cheek and jawline, exposing the thick concealer that failed to hide the yellow-purple contours of his handprint. "Then I went to the police. And then I went to a judge."
Grant’s smirk evaporated. He pushed himself off the wall, his eyes darting toward the security cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling. "Evan, let's go. She's crazy. She's actually psychotic."
"You hit me, Evan," I said, my voice echoing down the corridor as two associate project managers poked their heads out of a nearby conference room. "In front of your mother. In front of your brother. Because I didn't hand a twenty-seven-year-old man a plate."
"Paige, lower your voice!" Evan snarled, panic and fury warring across his features. His fists clenched at his sides. "You're ruining everything! Do you know what an order like this does to my background check? To my firm?"
"You should have thought about your background check before you raised your hand against my face," I said.
I turned my head toward the desk. "Brenda, please dial building security and inform them that an individual with an active protective order is trespassing on the fourth floor. Tell them to dispatch the Dallas Police Department."
"You bitch," Evan spat, his composure completely disintegrating. He lunged forward again, slamming both hands down on the quartz counter with a violent *thud* that rattled the flower vase. "You think you can just discard me after thirteen days? You think your family will let you do this? Your dad called me yesterday morning, Paige! He told me he'd personally bring you back to Lakewood by your hair if he had to!"
The elevator doors chimed again.
A tall, imposing woman with silver-streaked hair cut into a sharp bob stepped out, accompanied by two armed private security guards in charcoal uniforms.
Victoria Sterling.
She took in the scene in less than two seconds: the trembling receptionist, the legal document on the counter, Evan's raised fists, and the bruise barely hidden on my jaw.
"Is there an issue on my executive floor?" Victoria's voice was low, cultured, and carried the weight of four decades of dominance in a male-dominated industry.
Evan froze. He spun around, trying to smooth his jacket. "Mrs. Sterling. Good morning. I'm Evan Mercer, Paige's husband. We... we just had a minor personal misunderstanding—"
"I know who you are, Mr. Mercer," Victoria said coldly, not extending a hand. She looked at the security guards. "Gentlemen, please escort these two trespassers off the premises immediately. If either of them sets foot on any Vance-Sterling property in the state of Texas again, have them detained for criminal trespass."
"Wait!" Grant piped up, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "She took seventy-five thousand dollars from our family company! She's a thief!"
Victoria turned her steely gaze upon Grant. "Young man, if you do not close your mouth in the next three seconds, my legal department will ensure that your next public appearance is inside a deposition room. Remove them."
The two security guards stepped forward, their hands resting firmly on their duty belts.
Evan looked back at me, his eyes burning with venom and wounded pride. "This isn't over, Paige. You haven't seen the last of me. You think you're untouchable? You're going to lose everything."
"Get out, Evan," I said quietly.
As the guards escorted the two Mercer brothers into the elevator, Victoria walked over to the reception desk. She picked up the Tiffany velvet box and dropped it straight into the black wastebasket beside Brenda’s desk without breaking eye contact with me.
May you like
"My office, Paige," Victoria said gently. "Bring your laptop."
***
