“Give me his address,” she said sharply.
“I’ll see for myself what kind of emergency justifies this.”
Minutes later, the address appeared on her tablet:
847 Maple Street, South Tacoma.
Lauren raised an eyebrow.
It was miles—worlds away—from her high-rise towers and ocean-view penthouse. A working-class neighborhood she had never had a reason to visit.
A thin smile crossed her lips.
She was ready to put someone in their place.
She had no idea that stepping across that threshold would not only change an employee’s life—but completely shatter her own.
Thirty minutes later, her black Mercedes crawled through narrow streets riddled with potholes. Children played barefoot near cracked sidewalks. Stray dogs slept in the shade. Small houses stood shoulder to shoulder, painted in fading colors.
Neighbors stopped to stare as the luxury car rolled past, as if something from another planet had landed among them.
Lauren stepped out, her designer heels sinking slightly into uneven pavement. Her Swiss watch glinted in the sunlight. She felt out of place—but masked it by lifting her chin and walking with authority.
She stopped in front of a worn blue house with a cracked wooden door.
847.
She knocked—hard.