A young boy, no more than six was thrashing violently in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, his small body bucking against the leather as though the car itself were his enemy.
His face was flushed a deep, painful red, tears soaking his lashes and streaking down his cheeks unchecked.
Tiny fists slammed against the seat, against the door, anywhere they could reach, his screams raw and desperate, echoing through the underground garage with a panic that clawed at the chest.
A woman stood frozen by the open door. She was dressed in immaculate designer clothes, tailored, flawless, expensive, but her composure had completely unraveled.
Her hands shook as she hovered uselessly, whispering pleas that went unheard, her face drawn tight with exhaustion and fear. Seraphine did not hesitate.
