Chapter 4 - THE DEBT COLLECTOR
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The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the east wing suite, but it brought no warmth to the room. I sat huddled on the edge of the king-sized bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, staring blankly at the silver tray of uneaten breakfast sitting on the mahogany nightstand.
My mind was a chaotic war zone of terrifying thoughts. Murder suspect. Corporate kidnapping. Harlan Voss holding all the cards. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to smash through the ballistic glass, to steal a car, to disappear into the frozen streets of Detroit. But Mrs. Gable’s words echoed in my ears: Out there in the snow, the wolves are already hunting you.
If the Detroit Police Department had my name at the top of their homicide list, walking out of the Voss compound meant walking straight into a pair of handcuffs. Harlan Voss was the only barrier between me and a prison cell for a crime I didn't commit.
At 9:00 AM sharp, a soft knock rapped against the double doors.
"Come in," I called out, my voice sounding hollow and small.
Mrs. Gable entered, carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a thick manila folder tucked beneath her arm. Her face was as rigid and expressionless as ever, but her eyes held a subtle, assessing weight as she set the tray down on the table.
"Mr. Voss sends his regards," Mrs. Gable said smoothly. "He is currently meeting with his legal counsel and the head of our internal security division. He asked me to give you this."
She slid the manila folder across the polished coffee table.
I didn't move immediately. "What is it?"
"Open it," she instructed.
I unfolded my legs, slid off the bed, and walked slowly over to the table. I flipped open the brass clasp of the folder and pulled out the top document.
My eyes widened in shock.
It was a bank statement. A cashier’s check confirmation bearing the letterhead of First Detroit Trust.
Amount deposited: $250,000.00.
Account holder: Rue Callaway.
Beneath the check was a legal document—a binding employment contract designating me as Director of Domestic Operations and Special Confidential Assistant to Harlan Voss, with an annual salary of $180,000, full medical benefits, and a housing stipend that included a fully paid luxury townhouse in downtown Detroit upon the completion of my tenure.
"Is this a joke?" I looked up at Mrs. Gable, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Quarter of a million dollars? I don't want his blood money. I didn't save Belle for a payout!"
"It is not a payout, Miss Callaway," Mrs. Gable corrected sharply, her voice dropping into a stern, unyielding register. "It is a retainer. In this city, protection of this magnitude is expensive. Mr. Voss does not give gifts; he secures assets. And right now, by decree of the state prosecutor and the police chief—both of whom owe their political careers to Mr. Voss—you are officially categorized as a confidential government witness under his direct corporate protection."
I stared at the papers, the bitter reality sinking deep into my bones. I wasn't just trapped in the Voss compound; I was on his payroll. I had been bought, paid for, and legally tethered to a man who lived outside the law.
"What does he expect me to do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He expects you to play your part," Mrs. Gable replied, stepping toward the door. "At 11:00 AM, you will be escorted to the east wing nursery. Miss Belle has been asking for you. She refuses to eat her breakfast until her 'freezer angel' comes to visit."
Freezer angel.
The nickname hit me right in the chest, softening the jagged edges of my terror. I remembered the little girl in the navy coat, her lips pale, whispering cold.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," I said quietly.
Mrs. Gable paused at the door, her hand resting on the brass handle. She looked back at me, a brief, fleeting flicker of human warmth crossing her stern features for the first time.
"Be careful with him, Rue," she advised in a low, warning tone. "Harlan Voss is a man who loves his daughter with the fury of a hurricane. But he has buried every enemy he’s ever had beneath six feet of concrete. Do not give him a reason to add you to the foundation."
The door clicked shut.
Ten minutes later, I walked down the long, carpeted corridor of the east wing toward the nursery. The door was propped open, and the sound of soft laughter drifted out into the hallway.
When I stepped inside, the breath caught in my throat.
Belle was sitting up in a massive, white-canopied bed, wearing a pink silk nightgown, her dark curls brushed to perfection. Sitting beside her on the edge of the mattress, reading an illustrated copy of Alice in Wonderland in that deep, gravelly baritone that commanded boardrooms and terrified enemies, was Harlan Voss.
He looked entirely different than he had in his study or the parking garage. The corporate titan was gone; in his place was a devoted, exhausted father whose entire universe revolved around the little girl in front of him.
"And then," Voss was saying, his voice softening as he turned a page, "the Cheshire Cat grinned, showing all his teeth, and disappeared into the tree."
Belle giggled, clapping her hands together. Then, her eyes darted toward the doorway and locked onto me.
"Rue!" she cried out happily, throwing off her blanket and scrambling across the bed.
Before I could take another step, small arms wrapped tightly around my waist. I dropped to my knees, hugging her back fiercely, burying my face in her dark curls. She felt warm, solid, and miraculously alive.
Harlan Voss sat on the edge of the bed, closing the storybook with a quiet thud. He watched us, his dark eyes unreadable, the heavy shadow of the Voss empire momentarily forgotten in the quiet warmth of the nursery.
"She wouldn't touch her oatmeal," Voss said quietly, standing up and towering over us. "She told Dr. Aris she was waiting for the lady with the warm coat."
I looked up at him, holding Belle close against my shoulder. "She needs quiet, Mr. Voss. And she needs to know she’s safe."
"She is safe," Voss stated, his voice dropping into that absolute, unyielding decree. "As long as you are in this house, nobody will ever touch a hair on her head again."
He reached out, his large, powerful hand resting briefly against my shoulder before he turned and walked toward the door. But as he stepped out into the hallway, a sharp, urgent chime echoed from the intercom panel near the door—a private security alert.
Voss pressed the receiver to his ear.
"Voss," he barked.
I heard a frantic voice crackle through the speaker—a security chief stationed at the front gates.
"Mr. Voss, you need to look at the perimeter monitors immediately. A federal marshal accompanied by two homicide detectives from the 4th Precinct just pulled up to the front gates. They have a warrant for Rue Callaway’s immediate arrest."
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Harlan Voss’s eyes slowly turned back toward me, a dark, dangerous storm gathering in the deep obsidian of his gaze.
"Lock down the compound," Voss commanded into the intercom, never breaking eye contact with me. "And tell the gate guards to let the police in. Let’s see how badly the Detroit Police Department wants to test my hospitality."
