At exactly seven, a black car waited outside Elara's apartment. Sleek, polished, and far too expensive for her quiet street, it drew curious glances from neighbors peeking through curtains.
A man stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses despite the fading sun.
"Elara?" His voice was calm but carried authority.
She hesitated on the porch, clutching her bag. "Yes?"
"I've been sent to escort you." He opened the car door with a precise motion, like everything he did was rehearsed.
Every instinct told her to refuse. Yet her feet moved anyway. The leather interior smelled faintly of smoke and something rich she couldn't place.
As the car pulled away, Elara's nerves tangled with a strange excitement. She caught glimpses of the city through tinted glass, but the world outside blurred into shadows.
Finally, the driver spoke again. "Mr. D'Amaris asked me to deliver a message."
She tensed. "What message?"
The driver's lips curved, though his glasses hid his eyes.
"He said…" the man paused, his tone dropping low, "…you shouldn't be afraid. He's been waiting a long time for you."
Elara's blood ran cold.
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