“Stay Behind Me.” CEO Mocked Her Driver a Single Dad — Then His SEAL Past Saved Her

The underground parking structure beneath the Hyatt was dimly lit, smelling of damp concrete and warm exhaust.

Adrien moved Victoria down the service stairwell at a rapid, controlled pace. He didn't run—running invited panic and ruined peripheral vision. He kept one hand firmly locked around her wrist, guiding her through the darkness like an anchor.

"Key," he demanded as they reached the heavy steel doors leading to the executive bay.

Victoria’s hand was shaking so violently she dropped her silver clutch onto the concrete. "I... I don't have it. My assistant—"

Adrien picked up the clutch, unzipped it with one hand, pulled out the sleek black key fob for the Mercedes S-Class, and hit the unlock button. The car's headlights flashed twice in the dim garage.

"Get in the rear footwell," Adrien ordered, opening the door. "Not the seat. The floorboards. Cover your head."

"The floorboards?" Victoria snapped, a tiny flick of her old arrogance surfacing through her shock. "This dress costs—"

Adrien grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her down between the front and back seats with a firmness that left no room for debate. He slammed the door, rounded the bumper, threw himself into the driver's seat, and fired the twin-turbo V8 engine to life.

The Mercedes leaped forward, its tires screaming against the polished epoxy floor.

"Who were those men?" Victoria shouted from the floorboards, clutching her hair. "Was it a robbery? A kidnapping?"

"It was a hit," Adrien said, shifting into drive as they roared toward the exit ramp. "Professional. Two shooters, crossfire setup, suppressed weapons. They didn't want a ransom, Ms. Sterling. They wanted you dead before you reached the street."

As the Mercedes broke through the garage security gate into the rainy Manhattan night, a dark blue Nissan Altima—the same vehicle Adrien had logged in his small leather notebook weeks earlier—swung out from an alleyway, aiming its heavy front bumper directly at the driver’s side door.

Adrien didn't flinch. He didn't hit the brakes.

He slammed his foot onto the accelerator, whipped the steering wheel forty-five degrees to the right, and used the heavy front weight of the armored Mercedes to pit-maneuver the Altima.

The heavy German sedan struck the Nissan’s rear quarter-panel with a deafening crunch of tearing steel and shattering glass. The Altima spun out of control, slamming violently into a concrete fire hydrant, water shooting forty feet into the night sky.

Victoria gasped as the impact rattled the frame, but Adrien barely shifted in his seat.

He tore down 42nd Street, weaving through late-night taxi traffic with terrifying precision. He wasn't driving like a chauffeur anymore; he was driving like an operator clearing a hot LZ in downtown Baghdad.

"Where are we going?" Victoria asked, her voice trembling as she lifted her head slightly from the leather floorboards. "The police station? My apartment on Park Avenue?"

"Your apartment is compromised," Adrien said, checking his rearview mirror every three seconds. "If they knew your schedule at the Hyatt, they have eyes on your building. And we aren't going to the police yet."

"Why not?" she demanded, anger finally beginning to mask her terror. "I am Victoria Sterling! I have the chief of police on speed dial!"

"Because the man who organized that hit is sitting in a room with people you know," Adrien said coldly. "And until I figure out who bought those shooters, the NYPD is a risk you can't afford."

Victoria went dead silent. The rain hammered against the reinforced glass of the Mercedes as they crossed the bridge out of Manhattan, heading toward the quiet, low-lit streets of Queens.

"Where are you taking me, Walker?" she asked softly, looking up at the back of his neck.