The night was quiet, the hum of distant traffic from the Ribbon barely audible through the cracked window of the small diner. Cathy Carlson sat at a booth near the back, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. She looked tired—her soft features drawn with worry, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. The events of the past weeks had weighed heavily on her: M&M’s disappearance, Bryon’s coldness, and the constant feeling that everything was slipping out of her control. She sighed, staring at the swirl of cream in her cup.

The bell above the diner door jingled, and Cathy glanced up instinctively. Angela Shepard strode in, her long, dark curls catching the dim light. She was striking as always, her beauty tempered by an edge of defiance and bitterness that seemed to follow her everywhere.