The moment the confirmation reached Xaviere's ears that Zeraida had been taken, the composure he had maintained for years evaporated into thin air. The composed executive who governed vast corporate empires with absolute logic ceased to exist in an instant.
He stood motionless inside the center of the estate's primary operations suite, his eyes fixed on the aerial surveillance feed covering the screen.
The image displayed the quiet yard of the old Winterland estate, highlighting the single discarded heel, the three distinct marks in the dirt, and the glinting bracelet beneath the shrub.
His security chief remained standing a few feet away, holding a digital tablet with a tense grip.
"Sir, the vehicle cleared the outer boundary less than four minutes ago," the chief reported smoothly. "We are currently reconstructing its initial trajectory."
Xaviere did not turn his head, his voice dangerously low. "How many potential exit routes exist from that perimeter?"
