Part 2: “No,” I whispered.

“It means Vincent Calderone didn’t stumble into your divorce hearing. Men like him don’t stumble anywhere.”

I looked back.

Vincent was already standing, buttoning his suit jacket. One of his guards leaned close and murmured something. Vincent nodded without taking his eyes off me.

Then he walked out.

And somehow, the courtroom felt more dangerous after he was gone.

I spent twelve minutes hiding in the women’s restroom, gripping the cold porcelain sink and staring at my own reflection.

I looked like a stranger.

Pale face. Tired eyes. Borrowed dress. A woman accused of selling herself because a powerful man had left money on her windshield for reasons she did not understand.

Outside the narrow frosted window, I could see the street below.

A black SUV idled at the curb.

Then another pulled up behind it.

Then a third.

My stomach twisted.

The restroom door opened.

I expected Rita.

Instead, a woman in a black designer suit stepped inside and locked the door behind her. She was maybe mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones, dark hair in a sleek knot, and the kind of calm that made panic feel childish.

“Mrs. Walker,” she said.

I backed against the sink. “Who are you?”
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