Page 88 of Embrace Me Forever

“Keep working,” he snaps back, missing the irony.

I halt, swiveling in the chair to face Hark directly. All this time, he’s been a constant reminder of Bertram’s pervasive influence over my life. But I refuse to cower before such fears any longer. I need him to back off for just a few crucial minutes.

My stance backfires. Instead, the brass knuckles, still clutched in his hand, crash into my stomach. I crumple to the floor, clutching my aching abdomen.

“Get up!” Hark barks, with the other two goons looming over me.

I rise gingerly, realizing that while Hark is serious about his ‘talent’ for causing pain, his grasp on my actual work, programming, is shaky at best. That realization emboldens me.

Swallowing the pain, I turn back to the screen, the pathway clearer now. I can manipulate this system, weaving in my own protocols that connect with the code I developed for QEOPA. Aware of the many eyes on me, and not just the six in this room, I know my every keystroke is under scrutiny. Yet, I’m prepared. I can mask my real actions, tricking them into thinking these are merely routine pauses.

As I execute my covert digital breakout, my brain races ahead, probing for a way to pinpoint my location. I attempt to pull coordinates, but it’s clear the network settings have disabled geolocation, a clever yet frustrating hurdle. Tinkering too aggressively with the network might trigger red flags, and I can’t afford that right now.

The only lead I have is a code I glimpsed near the door before being dragged down here—USMNP. It could be a building code or some old operational marker, meaningless now in its obscurity.

Hark returns, hovering over me with his usual repulsiveness, his breath as vile as his disposition. “By the way, my father wasn’t lying about your dear Sebastian. He screamed like an infant. Even louder than your Coco.”

I lunge at him, but he easily restrains me, once again flaunting his brass knuckles.

Pain lingers from the initial blow, and I’m wary of provoking another. Despite his goading, certainty holds fast in my mind.Sebastian didn’t scream. I was there. I heard the gunfire, but his silence was resolute.

But wait…what did he just say?

As clarity sharpens my focus, Hark leans in, his whisper venomous. “How do I know? You might wonder. I personally delivered those bullets!”

I force calm over my roiling emotions, analyzing Hark’s confession, whether a slip or a deliberate taunt, I couldn’t yet tell. Was he truly Bertram’s son?

“Who’s your mother?” I ask.

His sneer deepens, his response dismissive. “None of your business.”

“One of his whores?” I taunt sharply.

He clenches his fist, poised to strike, but a sudden video call halts him. The large monitor flickers to life, revealing Abner Bertram’s smug face.

The old man opens, “Miss O’Connor. Not quite the efficiency we saw from you in London, is it?”

Feeling Hark’s stare searing into my back, I drawl, “I’m not used to having a shadow, especially one so keen to learn from me. Understandable, though, wanting your son so close. It’s a tad smothering, don’t you think?”

“You’ll adapt,” Bertram snaps, his annoyance barely concealed as he scrambles to keep his composure, clearly not expecting his secret to slip out. “Hurry and wrap this up. I’m itching to see you tackle Project Mock.”

“Oh, can’t wait to see how you fare in the end?” I snap back, referencing the prototype I created at the start of the project, modeled after him. “Everyone meets their end, Mr. Bertram. No need for my algorithms to predict that.”

Bertram smirks, unfazed. “Astute observation, Miss O’Connor. And since we’re on the topic of prototypes, I’d like you to scrap the current model and start again, this time usingSimon Blake as your muse. He perfectly captures the essence of our future market, dovetailing nicely with my ambitions for expansion.”

He pauses, and a hint of malice threads through his nonchalance. “And while you’re at it, I’m particularly curious to see how your beloved prototype meets his end.”

I swallow, the taste of dread sharp on my tongue, trying to conceal the unease churning inside me.

“Now, chop-chop, Miss O’Connor,” Bertram commands, severing the connection abruptly.

Hark lingers next to me a moment longer.

“You’ll never be a Bertram,” I jab. “He’s just using you.”

“Don’t forget, I control your daughter’s fate, Mary.”

I exhale slowly, feigning submission as I turn back to my keyboard. After a moment, Hark walks away to join his cohorts for dinner. But not before I catch him discreetly sliding his brass knuckles into his jeans pocket.

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