They stormed my store to reclaim a 130-pound Cane Corso, but when his billionaire owner finally arrived, the dog ignored his command and sat on my foot—then suddenly froze at something behind him.

We did not even have time to pack clothes. Roman handed me a heavy tactical jacket, and we rushed out the back door into the damp, cool night. The suburban neighborhood was dead quiet, save for the distant wail of a police siren. Roman had a secondary vehicle—a nondescript gray sedan—parked three streets over for exactly this type of emergency.

As we sped down the highway toward the city limits, my mind raced with a million terrifying thoughts. My sister, Chloe, was staying at her college dormitory across town.

"We need to get Chloe," I said frantically, pulling out my phone to call her.

"Already handled," Roman said, keeping his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. "I pressed a panic button on my watch the second I read that text. A private security team I keep on retainer just extracted her from her dorm. She is currently in an armored transport headed to a secure federal bunker. She is safer than we are right now."

I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding, thanking God for Roman’s extreme paranoia. But my relief was short-lived as a thick, black plume of smoke rose over the city skyline in the distance.

Roman’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. He took a sharp exit, driving us toward the commercial district. As we rounded the corner to my street, my heart dropped into my stomach.

Second Chance Pet Supply—the beautiful new store Roman had built for me, the symbol of our fresh start—was engulfed in a raging inferno.

Fire trucks were already on the scene, spraying massive arcs of water into the blazing structure, but it was useless. The fire burned with an unnatural, furious intensity, the flames glowing a sickly chemical green. This was not an accident. This was military-grade arson.

"No," I choked out, tears instantly blurring my vision. All my hard work, the rescue animals we were planning to house next week, the life I had painstakingly rebuilt—all of it was turning to ash before my eyes.

Roman stopped the car in a dark alley a block away, watching the destruction with cold, unblinking eyes. Titan whined from the backseat, resting his massive chin on my shoulder to comfort me.

"They used white phosphorus," Roman analyzed, his voice devoid of emotion. "It burns so hot that water cannot put it out. This was not just destruction, Elara. This was a message. The Architect wants me to know he can touch anything I care about, at any time."

A wave of profound grief washed over me, quickly followed by a surge of white-hot anger. I had spent my entire life being a victim. I was bullied, pushed around, and almost killed by Elias. Looking at the burning wreckage of my dream, the fear inside me suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, hardened resolve.

I reached into the duffel bag sitting between us, pulling out a sleek black pistol. I checked the safety and the magazine, moving with the muscle memory Roman had drilled into me during our weekend range trips.

"Where is the master ledger?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.

Roman looked at me, surprise flickering in his dark eyes before settling into deep respect. "It is encrypted on a micro-drive. I hid it inside the one thing they would never think to look for."