The bell above the bakery door chimed, cutting through the heavy silence left by Adrien Moretti’s departure. Lena let out a long, shuddering breath, her fingers still resting on the glass counter where the blank check had been.

Glass shattered overhead as a heavy boot slammed onto the balcony outside the study. The French doors imploded, showering the Persian rug with razor-sharp shards.

Two masked men in tactical gear dropped into the room, assault rifles raised.

Adrien moved with terrifying, fluid speed. Before the first intruder could acquire a target, two suppressed shots cracked through the study. The man collapsed backward, crashing into a mahogany bookshelf. The second intruder spun toward Adrien, but Lena—fueled by pure, unadulterated fury and adrenaline—grabbed a heavy, solid-brass decorative globe off the desk and hurled it with all her might.

It caught the intruder squarely in the chest, knocking him off balance just long enough for Adrien to sweep his legs out from under him and disarm him with a brutal, efficient strike to the jaw.

Silence descended once more, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the heavy breathing of the two survivors.

Adrien lowered his weapon, looking down at the unconscious intruder before turning his gaze slowly toward Lena. She was standing by the desk, her chest heaving, her hands covered in dust from the broken globe.

"Remind me never to cross you over a bad batch of croissants," Adrien muttered, a dangerous, appreciative smirk touching the corner of his mouth.

"Shut up and check if they're dead," Lena snapped, though her hands were trembling violently now that the adrenaline was fading.