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.

Anissa freezes. The cold rain drips from her hood, sliding down her pale face. She stares into Erick Shelton's impassive, dead eyes. Her pulse hammers in her throat.

Ashanti steps forward instantly. She places her body directly between Erick and Anissa. Her hand drifts dangerously toward her hidden knife.

Erick doesn't even flinch at Ashanti's lethal threat. He simply raises a single, gloved finger. He commands her to stand down with quiet, absolute authority.

Anissa touches Ashanti's shoulder. She silently orders her bodyguard to back off. Fighting the Head of Security on Sinclair grounds is suicide.

Erick's earpiece crackles loudly in the quiet rain. A panicked guard's voice bleeds through. The guard reports that the targets from the bistro are heading toward the estate perimeter.

Erick presses his finger to his earpiece. His voice is calm and dripping with authority.

"Stand down," Erick orders the guards. "Return to your barracks immediately. This is a severe misidentification, and you are causing a public spectacle."

He coldly reprimands the men over the radio. He berates them for causing a public disturbance while off-duty. He threatens them with immediate termination if they pursue the matter further.

Anissa watches in stunned silence. Erick is completely covering up the chase. He neutralizes the threat with a few words, erasing her involvement.

Erick turns his gaze back to Anissa. His rigid expression softens just a fraction, though his posture remains stiff.

He gestures toward a hidden, ivy-covered iron gate embedded in the estate's massive stone wall.

Erick unlocks the gate with a biometric scan of his thumb. The heavy iron clicks open. He steps aside to allow Anissa and Ashanti to enter the grounds.

Anissa swallows hard. "Thank you," she whispers. Her voice is barely audible over the pouring rain.

Erick replies stiffly, his eyes fixed forward. "It is my job to protect the estate from scandals, ma'am. I will log this as a misunderstanding with aggressive paparazzi. However, you must understand that Mr. Sinclair will eventually review the perimeter logs. I highly suggest you return to your quarters before this situation becomes entirely unmanageable for both of us." He implies he is managing the immediate fallout for Julian's image, but the grace period he is offering her is incredibly fragile.

Anissa's brief moment of gratitude sours into bitter reality. She hurries through the gate, stepping back into her gilded cage.

They move quickly through the manicured gardens. They avoid the main illuminated pathways and head straight for the servant's entrance.

Anissa pushes open the heavy wooden door of the service corridor. She steps into the warm, brightly lit hallway.

Before she can even pull off her soaking wet hood, a stern, sharp voice echoes down the corridor.

"Where have you been?"

Hennie Drake, the head housekeeper, stands at the end of the hall. Her arms are crossed. She looks absolutely furious.

Hennie marches toward them. Her sensible heels click aggressively on the marble floor. She is flanked by two anxious, wide-eyed maids.

Hennie grabs Anissa's arm tightly. She pulls her out of the main sightline and shoves her into a nearby laundry room.

"Have you lost your mind?" Hennie scolds in a harsh whisper. "Sneaking out on the night of Cecily Price's birthday?"

Anissa's eyes widen in realization. She had completely forgotten about the lavish private dinner Julian was hosting for his favorite mistress tonight.

Hennie strips the wet hoodie off Anissa. She throws the damp garment to a maid. "Burn this in the incinerator immediately," Hennie orders.

Hennie grabs a thick towel. She aggressively dries Anissa's hair, muttering about the catastrophic optics of the situation.

"I'm sorry," Anissa tries to apologize.

Hennie cuts her off. "Julian is currently tearing the house apart looking for you. Cecily suffered a severe allergic reaction during the dinner. The entire event is ruined."

Anissa is genuinely confused. "I had nothing to do with the catering. I was out of the house the entire evening."

Hennie stops drying her hair. She looks Anissa dead in the eye. Her expression is grim and terrifying.

"The allergen was found in the specific custom dish you allegedly requested the kitchen to prepare," Hennie whispers.

Before Anissa can process the sheer malice of the framing, the heavy laundry room door is violently kicked open. The wood slams against the wall with a deafening crack.