The black card stock with its silver ink lay flat on the glass table. The red wax seal, shaped like a moon wrapped in thorns, seemed to burn onto the surface.
Marcus paced back and forth across the marble floor of the penthouse, his phone glued to his ear as he barked commands at his security team. "I want full facial recognition running on every lobby camera for the last three hours! Find out who paid that kid five hundred dollars!"
Clara stood by the sofa, her hands tucked inside the pockets of her cardigan. She wasn't crying, nor was she shaking. A cold, steady calm had settled over her. Facing Dominic Vance on national television had changed her. She was no longer the fragile girl hiding behind her father's medical bills.
"Sunday," Clara spoke up, her voice clear in the heavy room.
