Stepmom's Second Chance: Transmigrated Into His Cold Heart

Chapter 4: Shadows on the Heir

The anonymous email hit Harlan's secure server at 4:17 AM, a digital gut punch disguised as spam. Kim's tablet pinged in sync—her jury-rigged alerts from the Voss network. She bolted upright in bed, silk sheets pooling, heart jackhammering. Subject: Your Brats or Your Empire. Attached: photos.

Grainy shots: Liam sneaking out last night (pierced lip, hoodie, meeting some street-racing crew). Sophia at a shady clinic (weight-loss pills?). Theo's nursery cam—hacked, timestamped now.

Ransom: 10 million crypto by dawn. Or "leaks to tabloids, then worse."

"Fuckers," Kim hissed, already dialing Harlan's line. No ring—footsteps thundered down the hall. Door burst open; he stood there, black pajama pants low on hips, chest bare, fury etched in every ridge of abs. Goddamn distraction.

"You saw," he growled, striding in. Laptop open on her vanity in seconds. Kids safe asleep—verified via hall cams.

"Pros," she assessed, med brain clinical. "Social engineering. Knew our weak spots." Photos weaponized family fractures.

Harlan's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. "Reggie?"

"Too sloppy. This is pro—dark web vibes." She pulled up traces: VPN hops to Eastern Euro servers. "FL's doing? Amelia's clean, but..."

His eyes flashed. "Her?"

"Book smarts say yes. Or rival corp." Slow burn demanded caution—no accusations.

Dawn briefing: war room. Coffee IV drips, kids oblivious (school van dispatched with double security). Liam yawned in. "Wassup?"

"Someone's hunting us," Harlan said flatly. "Stay sharp."

Liam paled but nodded—growth.

Sophia clutched tea. "Me?"

Kim squeezed her shoulder. "Handled."

Theo babbled, oblivious. Win.

Plan: fake compliance. Kim coded a tracer into the crypto wallet—med school hacker elective paying off. Harlan's IT team (hers now) fed decoy data.

By noon, payout "sent." Tracer pinged: abandoned warehouse, industrial district. Trap?

"We go," Harlan said.

"I go," Kim countered. "Bait."

"No." Possessive edge sharpened.

"Logic: they expect the 'weak' stepmom. You flank." Standoff. His gaze raked her—jeans, leather jacket, badass upgrade. Reluctant nod.

Warehouse: dank, flickering fluorescents, puddles like black mirrors. Kim strode in solo, earpiece live.

"Money's yours. Show face."

Shadows shifted. Three goons—tattooed, armed. Leader: scarface, Russian accent. "Voss bitch. Phone."

No Amelia. Corp hit—VossTech rival, per traces.

They grabbed her rough—zip ties, gun to temple. "Boss wants chat."

Harlan's voice crackled: "Team in position. Hold."

Savage unlocked. Kim headbutted scarface—ER self-defense training. "Fuck your boss!"

Chaos: knee to groin, elbow strike. Goons dropped like sacks. Harlan burst in, team swarming. Cuffs clicked.

Interrogation room: downtown precinct, Voss lawyers omnipresent. Scarface cracked: hired by Helix Corp, merger saboteurs. No kid harm planned—just leverage.

Harlan: ice cold. "Helix CEO. Ruin him."

Kim: bruised wrist, adrenaline high. "Kids safe. PR win: 'Voss Foils Cyberterror.'"

Ride back: his jacket over her shoulders. Silence heavy. "Reckless."

"Effective." She met his eyes. Hand lingered on gearshift—close to her thigh.

Manor: kids mobbed her. Liam: "Heard you kicked ass." High-five.

Sophia: tears. "Don't die."

Theo: "Hero!"

Dinner: takeout feast. Harlan watched her, walls micro-cracking. "You fight like trained."

"Ex with anger issues. Useful." Half-truth.

Post-bedtime: library. Bourbon shared. "Thank you," he murmured. First softness.

"Don't go soft on me, Duke." Tease. Fingers brushed pouring—electric.

Email trace complete: Helix mole inside Voss. Cliffhanger—it's Amelia's contact.