She turned.
Evan and Noah Carter, identical five-year-old twins, were sprinting toward her, faces red with panic, arms stretched wide. They ran straight down the middle of the street, blind to everything except her.
Behind them, power collapsed into fear.
Jonathan Carter, real estate mogul and owner of half the street they lived on, was running after his sons, tie undone, face twisted in terror.
“Evan! Noah! Stop!” he shouted hoarsely. “There’s a car—stop!”
But the boys didn’t hear him. Losing Marisol felt far more dangerous than traffic.
She saw it all in slow motion—the children running, Jonathan chasing, and the distant growl of an engine nearing the bend. Everything had started just thirty minutes earlier, inside a room built for intimidation.
The mansion’s library smelled of leather and polished wood. Marisol stood trembling on the Persian rug, gloved hands clasped tightly.
Across from her sat Samantha Blake, Jonathan’s fiancée, elegant and cold, holding a glass of white wine.
“My diamond bracelet is gone,” Samantha said calmly. “It was on the dresser. You cleaned the room. Now it’s missing.”