Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 244

Chapter 244 Watching Him Bleed For Me

The suppressor on the broker’s pissot looked like a black cylinder of death. Static hissed in my right ear. The signal jammer severed my link to Tristan. I stood trapped in the soundproof office.

The broker kept the weapon leveled at my chest. He backed away from me. He reached the massive oak desk in the center of the room. He did not break eye contact. He pressed a hidden button beneath the wood surface.

The heavy tapestry on the far wall rolled up. A hidden panel slid back.grid of nine high-definition security monitors illuminated the dark space. The screens displayed every corner of the sprawling chateau.

The broker tapped a touchscreen on his desk. The center monitor expanded. It shifted from standard color to a stark green-and-white thermal feed.

“Watch him,” the broker ordered. A cold smile twisted his lips. “Watch the Johnston titan fall.”

I looked at the screen. A bright white heat signature moved along the exterior stone wall of the west wing. Tristan. He scaled the sheer face of the chateau in the freezing rain. He reached a thick iron ventilation grate near the ground. He gripped the iron bars. He braced his boots against the wet stone. He pulled. The rusted bolts gave way. He ripped the grate from the wall and tossed it into the brush.

He slid feet-first into the narrow shaft. The camera angle switched. The feed showed the sub-basement corridor.

The hallway looked like a bunker. Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. A massive steel vault door sat at the far end.

Tristan dropped from the ceiling vent. He landed in a crouch. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his midnight-black tuxedo. He drew his sidearm. He moved down the corridor with lethal, calculated precision.

He did not know the broker tracked his heat signature. He did not know the trap waited.

I gripped the silk fabric of my dress. My nails dug into my palms, I wanted to scream. I wanted to break the glass of the monitor. The jammer killed my voice. I watched my husband walk into a kill box.

A shadow detached from the concrete wall near the vault door.

An elite private security contractor stepped into the light. The man stood six inches taller than Tristan. He wore thick Kevlar armor. He held a long, serrated combat knife. He did not carry a gun. The broker ordered a silent execution. A gunshot in the basement risked echoing up to the gala.

Tristan stopped. He raised his handgun.

The contractor moved with terrifying speed. He lunged. He swung the heavy blade at Tristan’s neck.

Tristan ducked. The knife sparked against the concrete wall. Tristan pulled the trigger on his gun. A dull click echoed through the audio feed. The weapon jammed. The cold mountain rain and the dirt from the ventilation shaft fouled the mechanism.

The contractor thrashed. He slammed Tristan back against the wall. He reached over his shoulder, trying to claw Tristan’s eyes. Tristan tucked his chin. He

tightened his grip. He applied maximum pressure to the carotid arteries.

The struggle lasted ten seconds. The giant man’s knees buckled. His arms dropped. He went limp.

Tristan lowered the unconscious body to the concrete floor. He did not kill him. He neutralized the threat. He stood up. He leaned against the wall, chest

heaving. He clutched his bleeding arm.

I let out a shaky breath. My husband survived.

The broker stopped smiling. The smug confidence vanished from his face. He stared at the monitor. His elite killer lay defeated on the floor.

“Impressive,” the broker muttered. He tightened his grip on his suppressed pistol. He aimed the barrel at my head. “But useless. The vault door features military-grade encryption. A dual-factor biometric lock. He cannot breach the steel.