Ashanti closes the distance in a fraction of a second. Her boots make no sound on the wet asphalt. She thrusts the combat knife directly at Bowen's neck with lethal intent.

Bowen doesn't retreat. Instead, he steps inside Ashanti's guard. He casually deflects her wrist with his forearm.

The sound of bone striking bone echoes sharply in the narrow alley. Bowen's expression remains completely bored.

Ashanti recovers instantly. She spins her body weight into a low, vicious sweep kick aimed at Bowen's knees to cripple his mobility.

Bowen leaps slightly, clearing the sweep by an inch. He uses his downward momentum to drive a heavy knee toward Ashanti's chest.

Ashanti crosses her arms to block the brutal strike. The sheer kinetic force of his knee sends her sliding backward across the wet pavement. Her boots scrape loudly against the ground.

Anissa screams Ashanti's name. Terror grips her throat. She has never seen anyone manhandle her highly trained bodyguard with such terrifying ease.

Anissa drops to her knees. She grabs a discarded, broken glass bottle from the dirty ground. She raises it as a makeshift weapon, ready to jump into the fight to save Ashanti.

Bowen notices Anissa's movement out of the corner of his eye.

He immediately drops his aggressive stance. He raises both hands in the air in a gesture of absolute surrender.

"Your footwork has gotten sloppy," Bowen says, his voice calm. "Not like our last sparring match in the Arizona desert. Three years ago."

Ashanti freezes. Her eyes widen in absolute shock. The words register in her brain. Her knife trembles slightly in her tight grip.

Anissa demands to know what Bowen is talking about. Her voice is shrill with panic.

"Ashanti has never been to Arizona with anyone but my family!" Anissa insists.

Bowen looks at Anissa. His eyes are laced with a bitter, heavy sadness.

"Do you truly not remember the sandstorms?" Bowen asks quietly. "Or the promise we made?"

Another sharp, agonizing spike of pain hits Anissa's temples. The pain is blinding. It forces her to drop the glass bottle. It shatters against the pavement. She clutches her head, her knees buckling slightly.

Bowen takes a half-step forward. His hand reaches out instinctively to comfort her. His cold facade breaks, revealing raw desperation.

Ashanti instantly snaps out of her shock. She lunges forward, slashing the air between Bowen and Anissa with her blade. She forces him back.

Ashanti positions herself entirely in front of Anissa. She uses her own body as a human shield. She glares at Bowen with pure, lethal intent.

Bowen sighs. He straightens his suit jacket. His demeanor returns to cold, calculated professionalism. He knows he pushed too hard.

"I accidentally drove you away three years ago," Bowen tells Anissa, his voice tight. "It was a mistake. I have spent every single day since trying to rectify it."

Anissa fights through the pounding headache. She glares at him from behind Ashanti's shoulder.

"You are a delusional creep," Anissa spits back. "I have no idea who you are."

Bowen's jaw clenches. A muscle ticks furiously in his cheek as he absorbs the harsh, brutal rejection from the woman he loves.

He reaches into his inner jacket pocket. He pulls out a sleek, black business card. He flick it effortlessly through the air.

The card lands perfectly at Anissa's feet.

"Call me when you finally get tired of Julian's golden cage," Bowen says.

Without waiting for a response, Bowen turns. He walks toward the opposite end of the dark alley, melting seamlessly into the shadows until he is gone.

Anissa leans heavily against the wet brick wall. Her breathing is ragged. Her chest heaves. She waits until Bowen's footsteps completely disappear.

Ashanti quickly turns around. She checks Anissa for injuries. Her hands sign frantic, urgent questions about Anissa's headache.

Anissa waves her off. "It's just stress," she lies. She refuses to acknowledge the terrifying, strange familiarity of Bowen's words.

Anissa looks down at the black business card on the wet ground. She hesitates for a fraction of a second. Her heart beats wildly.

Instead of picking it up, Anissa deliberately steps on the card. She grinds it into the dirt and grime with the heel of her sneaker.

As they turn the corner out of the alley, Anissa pulls Ashanti into the shadow of a closed storefront. "Ashanti," Anissa demands, her voice a tight, breathless whisper. "You know him. I saw your face. Why were you so shocked?"

Ashanti hesitates, her hands moving in rapid, tense signs. 'I am not sure. He moves like someone from my past, a dangerous ghost. But it is impossible.'

Anissa's stomach twists, the headache throbbing fiercely against her skull. She grabs Ashanti's arm. Her fingers dig into the fabric.

"We need a drink," Anissa declares. "And a safe place to sit down before we head back to that nightmare estate."

Anissa pushes open the heavy glass doors of the upscale D. C. bistro. The warm air and the rich smell of roasted garlic wash over her cold face.

The hostess eyes their damp, casual hoodies with obvious disdain. But after Anissa drops a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the podium, the woman wordlessly seats them in a dimly lit corner booth.

Anissa slumps into the deep leather booth. She rubs her throbbing temples. She desperately tries to push the haunting sound of Bowen's voice out of her mind.

Ashanti sits opposite her. Ashanti's posture is rigid. Her hyper-vigilant eyes scan the room. Her right hand rests casually near the hidden knife at her waist.

A waiter approaches nervously. Anissa orders two rare steaks and the strongest black coffee they have. She needs the grounding, heavy reality of food to stop her hands from shaking.

While waiting, Anissa looks around the dining room. She notices a large circular table in the center. It is occupied by six loud, heavily built men.

The men are wearing civilian clothes, but their identical tactical boots, thick necks, and military haircuts scream private security.

One of the men laughs uproariously. He slams his empty beer glass onto the wooden table with brutal force. A nearby couple flinches and quickly asks for their check.

Anissa frowns. Her headache flares again. The obnoxious, aggressive noise grates against her already frayed nerves.

The waiter arrives with their coffee. His hands shake slightly as he sets the mugs down. He carefully avoids making eye contact with the loud table in the center.

Anissa takes a sip of the bitter, scalding coffee. The heat burns her tongue, but it helps settle the lingering adrenaline from the alleyway.

At the center table, a man with a jagged, ugly scar across his cheek stands up. He sways slightly from the alcohol.

He spots Anissa in the dim corner booth. His bloodshot eyes linger uncomfortably on her exotic features and sharp jawline.

The scarred man nudges his buddy. He points a thick, calloused finger toward Anissa. He mutters something filthy that makes the whole table erupt into laughter.

Ashanti's posture instantly stiffens. Her eyes lock onto the scarred man with dead, shark-like intensity.

Anissa places a calming hand on Ashanti's wrist under the table. "Stand down," Anissa whispers. "Ignore the drunks."

The scarred man grabs a fresh, unopened bottle of wine from his table. He staggers over to Anissa's booth. A predatory, arrogant smirk stretches across his face.

He slams the heavy bottle onto Anissa's table. He leans his thick body heavily against the edge of the booth, invading their space completely.

"Hey, sweethearts," he slurs, his crude pickup line dripping with entitlement. "I'll pour you a real drink if you come sit on my lap over there."

Anissa looks up at him. Her face shows absolute zero emotion.

"Walk away," Anissa says. Her voice drips with pure ice.

The man's smirk falters. His fragile ego is instantly bruised by her immediate, fearless rejection in front of his laughing friends.

He leans closer. His foul, alcohol-soaked breath washes over Anissa's face.

"You don't know who you're messing with in this city, little girl," he threatens.

He reaches out with his thick hand. He attempts to grab the hood of Anissa's sweatshirt to physically pull her out of the booth.

Before his dirty fingers can even brush the fabric, Ashanti moves with terrifying, explosive speed.

Ashanti grabs the man's extended wrist with her left hand. She twists it sharply, forcing the back of his hand flat against the hard wooden table.

With her right hand, Ashanti grabs the heavy, serrated steak knife the waiter had just set down.

She drives the steak knife downward with brutal, calculated force. She buries the steel blade halfway into the thick oak table. She traps the man's hand perfectly between the sharp blade and his own fingers.

The scarred man lets out a blood-curdling scream of pure terror. He drops to his knees, realizing how close he came to being impaled.

The entire bistro falls dead silent. The sound of dropping silverware echoes sharply in the tense air.

The five other men at the center table instantly kick their chairs back. They reach beneath their jackets for concealed weapons.

The five remaining guards draw matte-black tactical batons and concealed firearms. They advance rapidly toward the corner booth. Their faces are twisted in rage.

Patrons in the bistro begin screaming. People dive under their tables, shattering expensive wine glasses in their panic.

The scarred man, still trapped by the knife wedged near his fingers, whimpers loudly. He struggles to pull his hand free without slicing his own flesh open on the serrated edge.

One of the guards lunges forward, his heavy hand grabbing Anissa's shoulder. She violently twists away, her hand instinctively slapping at his wrist to disarm him. As her fingers brush the cold metal of his drawn pistol, her thumb grazes a raised emblem on the grip. In the chaotic, flashing strobe of the kitchen door swinging open, she catches a clear glimpse of a silver crest etched into the dark metal.

She recognizes the intertwined 'S' and 'C'. It is the private insignia of the Sinclair family's elite Capitol Guard.

A cold, paralyzing wave of dread washes over Anissa's entire body. Her stomach drops. If she is caught fighting Julian's own private army, the political fallout will be catastrophic. Julian will destroy her tribe's funding.

Anissa grabs Ashanti's shoulder. She shouts a sharp, urgent command in Navajo to retreat immediately.

Ashanti instantly obeys. She kicks the heavy wooden dining table forward with massive force. The table slams directly into the knees of the advancing guards.

Two of the heavy-set guards stumble and fall backward. They curse loudly as they crash into a waiter's tray station, sending plates crashing to the floor.

Anissa vaults over the back of the leather booth with surprising agility, her sneakers hitting the floor hard.

Ashanti covers their retreat. She grabs a heavy ceramic pepper grinder from a nearby table. She hurls it at the head of a guard aiming his weapon. The ceramic strikes him squarely in the nose with a sickening crunch.

Blood spurts from the guard's nose. He drops his aim, clutching his face in agony.

Anissa and Ashanti sprint through the swinging double doors of the kitchen. They startle the terrified culinary staff.

A panicked chef drops a heavy iron pan of sizzling oil onto the burner. It creates a massive flare-up of thick, greasy smoke that briefly obscures the pursuing guards' vision.

Anissa navigates the slippery kitchen tiles. She pushes past stainless steel prep stations, heading straight for the red metal fire exit door at the back.

Ashanti slams the metal bar of the door open. They burst out into a damp, trash-filled alleyway behind the restaurant.

They sprint down the alley. The heavy thud of tactical boots echoes right behind them as the furious guards kick open the fire door.

One of the guards shouts into a shoulder-mounted radio. "Target heading south! Call all off-duty personnel in the vicinity! I want an immediate interception at the estate perimeter before they cross the gates!"

Anissa curses under her breath. Her lungs burn. She realizes they have just triggered a full-scale security response from her own husband's private army.

They emerge from the alley onto a quieter side street. Cold rain begins to fall, making the pavement slick and treacherous.

Anissa spots a narrow gap between two parked delivery trucks. She grabs Ashanti's arm and pulls her into the tight, dark space to hide.

Three guards run past their hiding spot. The beams of their flashlights cut through the heavy rain, completely missing the narrow gap.

Anissa holds her breath. Her chest heaves against the cold metal of the truck. She waits until the heavy footsteps fade down the block.

"We need to get back to the estate," Anissa whispers to Ashanti. "Before they report this incident to Julian."

They slip out from between the trucks. They move quickly and silently through the labyrinth of Georgetown's wealthy back alleys.

As they turn a blind corner near the edge of the Sinclair property line, Anissa collides hard with a solid wall of a chest.

She stumbles backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement. A strong, gloved hand shoots out and catches her arm to steady her.

Anissa looks up. Her heart drops entirely into her stomach. She meets the cold, professional gaze of Erick Shelton.

Erick, the Sinclair Head of Security, stands tall in his dark trench coat. The rain beads off his shoulders. A clear earpiece glows faintly in his ear.

He looks down at Anissa's soaked hoodie. He glances at Ashanti's tense combat stance. His expression is completely unreadable.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sinclair," Erick says. His voice is smooth and devoid of mercy.