“WHO DO YOU THINK HE’LL BELIEVE?” The Future Bride Humiliated His 3-Year-Old—Then She Saw the Babysitter’s Phone Still Recording…

Daniel didn't shout back. He didn't waste his breath on futile threats. He turned on his heel and sprinted down the back staircase toward the kitchen armory.

Marcus and four of his best guards were already stacked against the heavy, steel-reinforced front doors, their shotguns trained on the entrance.

"They're cutting the power to the magnetic locks, Mr. Bennett," Marcus said through gritted teeth. "We have less than two minutes before the deadbolts cycle down."

"Where are Emma and Sophie?" Daniel demanded.

"In the panic room. The vault door is sealed from the inside. Nothing short of military-grade C4 is getting through that three-inch titanium plate," Marcus assured him.

"Good," Daniel said, chambering a round into a tactical 12-gauge shotgun. "Because tonight, no one steps past this foyer."

Suddenly, the wailing alarms died. The amber emergency lights snapped off completely, plunging the grand foyer into absolute, suffocating darkness. The heavy electronic hum of the magnetic locks clicked open with a sound like a guillotine falling.

*BANG!*

The massive oak double doors burst inward, splintering against the frame.

Smoke grenades were tossed across the threshold, instantly filling the marble entryway with blinding, choking white fog.

"Breach!" Marcus roared, opening fire.

The foyer exploded into violence. Gunfire erupted in blinding flashes of muzzle fire, illuminating the antique chandeliers and classical paintings in strobe-like bursts. The mercenaries moved forward with tactical shields, absorbing the buckshot and returning suppressive fire with rubber-jacketed stun rounds designed to incapacitate the security team without leaving fatal bullet wounds.

Marcus’s men fought fiercely, but the mercenaries were trained corporate extractors. One by one, Daniel's guards were tackled, tased, and pinned to the marble floor.

Daniel fired twice through the smoke, driving back two encroaching figures, but a blinding flashbang grenade detonated five feet in front of him.

The concussive blast blew Daniel off his feet. His shotgun clattered across the floor. His ears rang with a deafening, high-pitched whine, and his vision swirled into a blur of spinning white light. He tried to crawl, tried to reach for his weapon, but a heavy tactical boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him to the floor.

As the smoke slowly drifted toward the high ceiling, the figures parted.

Walking through the wreckage, her designer heels clicking sharply on the cracked marble, was Vanessa Sterling.

She stopped inches from Daniel’s face. She crouched down, her face splitting into that grotesque, triumphant smirk that Daniel had seen in his nightmares for seven years.