My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 143

Chapter 143: The Board Member’s Wife

[Jake’s POV continued]

Richard Bellamy moved fast for a man who probably believed exercise was something poor people did because they could not afford private drivers. He slipped through the corridor beside the east gallery with his phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders stiff beneath his tailored navy suit. He did not look back. That was his first mistake. Men who believed they were being hunted always looked back. Men who believed they were escaping consequences kept their eyes forward.

I followed at a steady pace, keeping enough distance between us that the museum staff would not immediately notice the chase. Around us, the Harrington Museum continued pretending to be civilized. Elderly donors studied paintings they did not understand. Waiters moved with silver trays. A curator with wire-framed glasses explained a marble bust to a woman who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. Nobody screamed. Nobody ran. That made the whole thing feel more dangerous.

Claire’s voice came through my comm, calm but tight. "He is heading toward the east service exit. If he reaches the side street, his driver can pull up within thirty seconds."

"Does he have security?"

"Not visible. But he made a call the moment he left the dining room."

"Who did he call?"

"I’m checking."

Ethan’s voice cut in, rough with pain. "I can get around to the east doors."

"No, you can’t."

"I am already moving."

"Ethan."

"What? I’m walking. Walking is allowed."

I passed a glass case filled with silver ceremonial knives and almost smiled. Of course the museum had weapons on display while pretending not to be violent. Rich people loved violence as long as it was old enough to be called heritage.

Richard reached the end of the corridor and pushed through a staff-only door without hesitation.

That was interesting.

A guest did not know which museum doors led to service corridors unless someone had told him ahead of time.

I followed him through.

The air changed immediately. The polished perfume and old wood of the museum disappeared, replaced by cleaning chemicals, concrete, and the dull hum of ventilation. The corridor behind the gallery was narrow and badly lit, with stacked crates along one wall and framed paintings wrapped in protective cloth.

Richard was twenty feet ahead of me.

He finally looked back.

His face went pale.

"Mr. Hart," he said, lowering the phone from his ear. "This is a restricted area."

"So is leaking internal security schedules," I said.

He froze.

Only for half a second.

Then he ran.

For a man in Italian leather shoes, he had a decent burst of speed. He bolted down the corridor, shoulder-checking a startled museum worker carrying a crate of catalogues. The man cursed as the papers scattered across the floor. Richard did not stop. He reached a metal stairwell door and shoved it open, disappearing into the concrete steps beyond.

The System appeared.

[Ding!]

[Optional Objective Generated!]

Objective: Stop Richard Bellamy without causing a public scene.]

Reward: Mission Progress +10%]

Penalty: Host will trip slightly during next dramatic entrance.]

I stared at the screen while walking faster.

"Not now," I muttered.

[Penalty Applied!]

Reason: Host complained during active mission.]

Penalty: Mild calf cramp.]

My left calf tightened immediately.

I almost swore.

Instead, I pushed through the stairwell door and followed Richard down. He was already one flight below, breathing hard, one hand gripping the railing as he descended toward the service level. His polished shoes slapped against the concrete steps. Mine followed slower, controlled, because if I sprinted with the calf cramp the System had gifted me, I would probably tumble down the stairs and turn the entire operation into a medical comedy.

"Richard," I called down. "Running makes you look guilty."

He did not stop.

"It also makes you sweat through expensive tailoring."

Still nothing.

Claire’s voice sharpened in my ear. "His call connected to a blocked number routed through a Swiss relay. I can’t identify it yet, but the encryption signature matches one of Isabella’s courier channels from Zurich."

"Good."

"Good?"

"It means he panicked in the correct direction."

I reached the second landing just as Richard shoved through another door into the museum’s delivery bay. Cold air rushed in from outside. A white service van was parked near the loading dock, its rear doors open, engine running. Two museum workers stood beside it, staring in confusion as Richard hurried toward them.

He was not heading for his own car.

He was heading for a pickup.

That meant Isabella’s people had already prepared extraction.

The driver of the van stepped out.

He was not a museum employee.

Too still. Too broad. Right hand inside his jacket.

I stopped at the edge of the doorway.

Richard saw the van and looked relieved.

The driver looked at me and did not.

"Claire," I said quietly. "Tell museum security there is an unauthorized vehicle in the loading bay."

"Already doing it."

The driver moved first.

His hand came out of his jacket holding a compact pistol with a suppressor attached.

The old me would have seen the attack a second before it happened through Oracle. The new me only saw the shoulder shift, the wrist angle, the way his feet planted.

It was enough.

I grabbed a metal rolling cart beside the door and shoved it hard down the ramp. The cart slammed into the driver’s knees just as he raised the gun. His first shot went wide, cracking into the concrete wall behind me with a muted snap. The museum workers screamed and dropped behind a crate.

Richard shouted something I did not hear.

I moved.

Not gracefully. Not with perfect prediction. My calf still hurt, my body was tired, and my right shoulder pulled sharply as I closed the distance. But I had spent two years surviving men who wanted me dead in worse places than a museum loading bay. The driver recovered fast, lifting the gun again, but I was already inside his reach.

I caught his wrist with both hands and drove it upward. The second shot cracked into the ceiling. Plaster dust rained down. I twisted his arm hard enough to make him grunt, then drove my knee into his stomach. He folded, but not enough. He was trained. He slammed his forehead into my cheek, and pain burst across my face.

For a second, the world flashed white.

No Oracle.

No warning.

Just pain.

The driver tried to bring the gun back down.

I headbutted him back.

It was not elegant. Darius would have hated it. Ethan would have called it desperate. It worked anyway.

The man staggered. I wrenched the pistol from his hand and slammed the butt of it into his temple. He collapsed against the side of the van and slid to the floor.

I stood over him, breathing harder than I wanted to admit.

The System chimed.

[Optional Objective Complete!]

Reward: Mission Progress +10%]

Penalty Avoided: Public scene.]

A museum worker screamed again.

The loading bay alarm started wailing.

Another screen appeared.

[Correction: Public scene partially created.]

[Penalty Applied!]

Penalty: Host will trip slightly during next dramatic entrance.]

I stared at the screen.

"Unbelievable."

Richard tried to run past the van.

He did not get far.

Ethan stepped into the loading bay from the side entrance, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other holding his Glock low at his side. His face was pale, his jaw tight, and he looked like walking had become a personal insult. But the gun in his hand was steady.

"Hi, Richard," Ethan said. "Bad time?"

Richard stopped so abruptly he nearly slipped.

I looked at Ethan. "I told you to stay put."

"I walked."

"You have cracked ribs."

"And a positive attitude."

"You look like death."

"So do you."

The museum alarm continued blaring.

Claire appeared behind Ethan a few seconds later, moving quickly in her dark blazer, her tablet in one hand and irritation on her face. She looked at the unconscious driver, the pistol in my hand, Richard’s terrified expression, and then me.

"You said quiet," she said.

"I was quiet. He brought a gun."

"That is becoming a pattern around you."

"I inspire strong feelings."

Richard backed toward the van, hands raised. "You have no idea what you are doing."

I turned to him.

His voice was shaking now. The boardroom polish was gone. The cautious executive had collapsed, and underneath was a frightened man who had made a deal with something he could not control.

"I know exactly what I’m doing," I said. "The question is whether you do."

Richard swallowed. "If you touch me, Isabella will destroy my family."

Marianne’s voice came from behind me.

"No, Richard. You did that."

I turned.

She stood at the top of the loading ramp, one hand gripping the railing, her face pale but composed. Her coat moved slightly in the cold wind blowing in from the open bay. She had followed us. Of course she had. Women like Marianne Bellamy did not survive eighteen years beside weak men by waiting in dining rooms while their lives fell apart in corridors.

Richard’s face crumpled. "Marianne, you shouldn’t be here."

"That seems to be your favorite way to speak to me lately."

"This is not what it looks like."

She walked down the ramp slowly, her eyes moving from the unconscious driver to the gun in my hand, then back to her husband. "It looks like you ran from a charity lunch into a service bay where a man with a gun was waiting to collect you."

Richard opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Marianne stopped a few feet away from him. "Who is she?"

Richard looked away.

Marianne’s voice sharpened. "Who is she, Richard?"

He flinched.

There it was.

Not fear of me.

Fear of her.

That was useful.

Claire stepped closer to Marianne, her voice gentle but firm. "Mrs. Bellamy, we need to move. Museum security is coming, and so are police. We can explain some of this, but not all of it."

Marianne did not look at Claire. Her eyes stayed on Richard.

"Was she the one who called you at night?" she asked. "The one you took into the guest wing? The one who made you afraid every time Jake Hart’s name appeared on the news?"

Richard’s shoulders slumped.

"Yes," he whispered.

The System chimed.

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