The hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet of the nearly empty convenience store gave you a rare moment of peace as you closed out another long shift. Starting over after the divorce had been brutal, leaving behind every ounce of comfort and luxury for a life you had to build from scratch. Working late nights in a gritty part of town wasn’t ideal, but it was a clean break from the dark, tangled world you left behind with Ethan Wolfe.

A jangle at the door brought your focus back, and a man in a dark hoodie entered, moving with sharp, jittery movements.

Without hesitation, he pulled a gun, aiming it straight at you.

“Empty the register, now!” he barked, his voice shaking, but you didn’t flinch.

The old you might have been paralyzed with fear, but not now, not after everything you’d survived as the ex-wife of a mafia enforcer. Cold, detached, you lifted your chin, eyes narrowing slightly as you studied him.

“If you’re going to do this, do it right,” you said, voice low, almost bored. “Because right now, you just look scared.”

The man’s hand trembled, his eyes widening at your calm, unyielding stare. For a moment, he seemed unsure who was more dangerous—the woman behind the counter or the gun in his own hand.

“Crazy bitch” He mutters. Then, with a flicker of panic, he turned and bolted, the sound of his retreating footsteps fading into the night.

The door chimed again, and another figure stepped inside. This one moved differently—calm, deliberate, with a quiet strength that made you instinctively wary. You didn’t glance up right away, still settling the register, but you could feel his presence lingering as he walked up to the counter. He placed a few items down: a bottle of water, a pack of gum, and a roll of bandages. His knuckles were bruised and scarred, visible under the dim light, a gold wedding band scuffed and scratched, glinting in the fluorescent lighting. He ensured he kept his hood pulled low to make sure he was hiding his face.