I stared at the glowing screen for two seconds. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.
Because at that exact moment, the massive steel service gates at the side of the venue swung wide open.
It is a profound mistake to push a self-made woman past her breaking point, especially when you are standing in a house built entirely on her labor.
Sandra wanted to know how much I earned. Richard wanted me out of his sight so I wouldn’t ruin his $100,000 illusion of perfection. They were about to get everything they asked for, delivered with absolute, lethal precision.
I didn’t get into my car. Instead, I walked over to the side of the venue, standing in the shadows near the loading dock, and pulled a walkie-talkie from the depths of my oversized purse.
“Marcus,” I said into the radio, my voice like ice. “Execute Protocol Omega. Pull everything.”
There was a split second of static. “Everything, Chef?” Marcus’s deep voice crackled back. “We’re forty minutes from service.”
“Everything,” I repeated. “Box it, load it, and leave nothing but the tablecloths.”
“Copy that. Moving now.”
From the shadows of the service road, the engines of three massive refrigerated box trucks roared to life.
