Chapter 1: Cảnh Báo Từ Vực Sâu

Part 1

🤯 **My ex-husband blew open my apartment door, claiming I was unstable—unaware I’d just revoked his mother’s high-level corporate access.**

I had just filed the paperwork to revoke Level 8 security access as required by the company. Three weeks later, I received an enraged call from my ex-husband, Marcus, threatening me because his mother had lost access to the corporation’s confidential data. The next morning, he led a special task force to my penthouse, affixed explosives to the main door, and lied that I was having a mental breakdown to gain entry. He believed I was alone and unprepared, but he had no idea who was waiting for him inside.

The phone vibrated violently against my ear.

“You revoked my mother’s access? Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Aris?” Marcus’s voice was a low growl, barely contained fury.

I gripped the receiver tighter.

“I followed company protocol, Marcus. Eleanor Holloway’s access to proprietary data was a significant liability.”

“You’ll regret this,” he snarled, his words laced with venom. “I’ll make sure you regret every single thing.”

He hung up abruptly, leaving a dead silence in my penthouse.

My first instinct was to confirm Eleanor’s status had indeed been downgraded. A quick check of the system confirmed it: Level 8 revoked, data access eliminated. I had done my job to protect my former employer’s sensitive information. Marcus, however, was clearly not thinking rationally. I pulled up my consulting firm’s operational accounts, a routine check after a contentious call. The screen showed an alert. My primary corporate credit line was frozen. I tried to access my emergency fund, only to be met with a similar message: “Access Denied.”

A moment later, my secure line rang. It was Mr. Davies, a key client.

“Dr. Chen,” he began, his tone tight with concern. “We just received some… disturbing reports regarding your firm’s financial stability.”

He hesitated.

“Are things truly alright?”

I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. This wasn’t just Marcus being vindictive. He wasn’t just trying to humiliate me. He was systematically targeting my career, aiming to cripple me professionally. The frozen credit lines, the spurious negative reports reaching clients—this was a deliberate, calculated campaign to destroy my livelihood. My ex-husband wasn’t just reacting; he was executing a plan. What other layers of sabotage had he already set in motion, before he even thought to come to my door?

Part 2

My fears were confirmed the next morning. The first sliver of dawn was just touching the city skyline when my internal security system chimed with a low, insistent alert.

I moved to my command console, a sleek panel built seamlessly into the wall of my penthouse study. The main screen flickered to life, displaying a panoramic view of the street below, captured by a discreet camera hidden in the building’s facade.

A dark, unmarked van pulled up silently to the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the nascent light. Moments later, a black tactical SUV joined it, parking with similar stealth.

Eight figures emerged from the vehicles, moving with a disciplined precision that was chilling to observe. They wore dark, unbranded tactical gear, the fabric absorbing rather than reflecting the dim light, unlike the logo-emblazoned uniforms of Marcus’s usual private security firm.

Each operative carried specialized equipment, compact and advanced, secured to their vests or held with practiced ease. There were no casual gestures, no verbal commands; they communicated with subtle hand signals, their movements synchronized and efficient.

They formed a perimeter, two figures covering the building’s entrance, another pair moving to secure the alleyway. The remaining four advanced directly toward my reinforced main door.

One operative, clearly the leader, approached the door with a confident stride. He carried a slim, metallic device, not a bulky, crude demolition pack. It looked less like a weapon and more like a precision instrument.

A quick internal scan, cross-referencing against known threat profiles, identified it immediately. It was a precision shaped charge, designed for surgical breaches, capable of bypassing high-grade steel without structural damage to the surrounding frame.

This wasn’t about brute force or crude destruction. This was about a clean, professional entry, leaving minimal trace.

My mind raced through the implications of such an operation. This level of specialized operatives, this caliber of equipment, the meticulous planning for what Marcus had spun as a simple “mental breakdown” intervention—it demanded immense financial resources and a deep network.

Marcus, for all his bluster and arrogance, didn’t command this kind of budget or expertise on his own. He ran a reputable, if aggressive, security firm, but this team operated on an entirely different scale.

This was a black-ops level operation, clandestine and costly. Only one person had the means, the motive, and the ruthless ambition to elevate this from a personal vendetta to such an extreme professional hit.

Eleanor Holloway. The realization hit me with a jolt that left my fingers trembling slightly on the console.

This wasn’t just Marcus’s personal revenge anymore; it was a calculated corporate assassination, carefully disguised and funded by his mother. Her objective wasn’t merely to humiliate me, to freeze my assets, or to spread rumors.

Her true aim was to eliminate me as a professional threat, to incapacitate my ability to interfere with her own illicit corporate dealings. The team moved into their final positions, ready to breach.

A heavy, expectant silence settled over the street outside, palpable even through the soundproof glass of my penthouse. I watched them, their faces grimly determined on the screen, ready to execute their mission.

They were experts, no doubt, the best money could buy for this kind of work. But even with their expertise, would they truly expect the reception awaiting them inside?