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The lock on the public restroom stall felt flimsy, a thin sliver of brass that could do nothing against the weight of a world collapsing. Sarah held her forehead against the cool metal partition, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. In the mirror above the cracked sink, her reflection looked back like a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost haunting the ruins of a life that had vanished overnight. / Chapter 4 / 10

Chapter 4 - Into the Lion’s DenSarah froze, her foot hovering half an inch above the linoleum floor.

Marcus hadn't even turned his head, yet his posture radiated lethal readiness. He was casually checking his wristwatch, leaning against the vending machines as if waiting for a delivery. But his position completely sealed off the hallway to the back exit.

There was no way out through the back.

Sarah pulled Emma back into the sanctuary of the restroom corridor just as Marcus’s voice cut through the air, low and carrying effortlessly across the tile.

“You’re making a mistake, Mrs. Mitchell,” Marcus said, still not looking at them. “Mr. Vance would prefer to have this conversation over a warm meal, not in a public restroom.”

Sarah’s breath hitched. She stepped out into the open, keeping Emma firmly behind her skirt, her chin raised with a flash of the old, untouchable pride she had worn before her husband’s empire crashed down.

“Tell your boss I don't dine with thieves and murderers,” Sarah shot back, her voice ringing clear despite the tremor in her hands.

Marcus finally turned. His eyes were cold, calculating, devoid of any human warmth. He pushed off the vending machine and took two slow steps toward them. “Mr. Vance isn’t a murderer, Mrs. Mitchell. He’s a businessman who likes to tie up loose ends. And right now, you are a very loose end holding forty million dollars that belong to his corporation.”

“I don't have his money!” Sarah shouted, stepping defensively in front of Emma. “David took everything, and he left us with nothing! Look at us! Do we look like we’re sitting on a fortune?”

Before Marcus could answer, the front of the restaurant erupted into sudden, deafening chaos.

A loud crash echoed from the register area—the sound of shattering glass and heavy iron tables overturning. Shouts rang out. The lunch crowd screamed, diving under tables as a half-dozen masked men burst through the front glass doors, brandishing heavy crowbars and shouting commands.

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And their target wasn't the register. Their eyes were locked straight on Jonathan Vance’s table.

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