Chapter 8 - Into the Archives
By sunrise, the forty-first floor looked like a crime scene handled by professionals. Frankie had quietly disposed of the intruder—detaining him in a secure basement holding room until local authorities on their payroll could arrive—and the broken door had already been replaced with a temporary reinforced panel. But the adrenaline crash left the penthouse feeling hollow and brittle.
Jonah refused to stay in the office. Dressed in a sharp charcoal cashmere sweater that hid his wheelchair harness, he sat rigidly by the window, staring down at the rain-slicked streets where delivery trucks and early commuters moved like ants.
"We're going down to the corporate archives on the third floor," Jonah said without turning around as I set a cup of black coffee on the marble desk. His voice brooked no argument, carrying the unyielding weight of a man determined to reclaim every inch of territory he had nearly lost last night.
"Your nervous system is still recovering from yesterday's stress," I said, leaning against the edge of the desk and crossing my arms. "Walking—or rather, rolling—into a hostile corporate basement an hour after a security breach is a terrible medical decision."
"It's a necessary one," Jonah countered, finally turning his head to look at me. The harsh morning light caught the small scar near his temple and the dark circles under his eyes. "Julian and his board members think I'm a cripple hiding in a glass cage upstairs. If I don't show my face down there today, they'll vote to strip my voting rights by noon. Are you coming with me as my nurse, Quinn, or do I need to hire someone else?"
The challenge hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. He was testing my limits again, pushing me to see if last night's violence had scared me off.
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"I'm coming," I said quietly, picking up my canvas tote bag and sliding my medical shears back into the side pocket. "Mostly because if you pass out in the elevator, I don't trust Frankie to check your pulse properly."
The third-floor archives smelled of old paper, ozone, and floor wax. Rows of steel shelving stretched into the dim fluorescent lighting, housing decades of Navarro Industries history. As we rolled down the central aisle, several junior executives scattered like startled pigeons, their eyes darting nervously between Jonah's wheelchair and my steady, unblinking stance behind him. Jonah moved through them like a phantom king, his hands gripping the wheels with white-knuckled precision, refusing assistance even when the industrial carpet made the steering heavy. When we reached the main conference room doors, he stopped, breathing heavily, and reached out to adjust his cuffs. The fear was gone, replaced by an iron core that nothing—not broken bones, corporate backstabbing, or midnight assassins—could crack.
