Sergio Maven simply stood there—but his presence felt like a straight line amidst the chaos.

A dark leather jacket framed his tall, sturdy frame. His gaze moved slowly, methodically, observing every entrance, every reflection in the glass, every shift in the crowd pattern. He wasn't the type of man who looked dangerous.

Quite the opposite.

Too calm.

His phone vibrated once.

He picked it up.

I've arrived.

The reply came almost immediately.

Take her home.

And tell my daughter I'll break off the engagement if she continues my work.

Sergio read the message twice.

Not because he hesitated. But because he recognized the pattern behind Arthur Hartman's words—a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Including his own daughter.

Okay.

He locked the screen.

Then he looked up.

And saw it.

A woman walking with a single suitcase, a black blazer, an uncompromising stride. The photograph of Cassandra that Arthur Hartman had given to him looked cold, almost frozen in its formal perfection. But the woman walking before him was far more complex than the photograph. Every step she took told a story: not just confidence, but absolute control over herself and her surroundings. The way she held her suitcase, the way her shoulders were square, the way her head was held high as she stared straight ahead.

But Sergio also noticed something else.

People who walk that fast are usually running from something.

He began to move.

The distance between them shrank in seconds.

"Miss Evelyn."

There was no response.

Not even her shoulders tensed.

As if she had anticipated this.

She quickened her pace slightly.

"Your father wants you back home."