I ducked into the shadows of a public bus shelter three blocks away, pulling my burner phone from my pocket.

The screen flashed a notification: INCOMING CALL FROM RACHEL BENNETT.

I swiped to answer, pressing the phone frantically against my ear.

“Sabrina! Are you safe? Where are you?” Rachel’s voice was sharp, urgent, and filled with professional authority.

“I’m out of the house, Rachel,” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the street in case Christopher or one of their security guards had noticed my escape. “I climbed out the second-floor window. They forced my biometric signature onto the municipal waterfront trust transfer using my phone while I was unconscious.”

“I received your text and the audio file,” Rachel said rapidly. “I listened to it twice. It’s an open-and-shut case of extortion, identity theft, and corporate fraud. But Sabrina, you need to hear this—Agent Miller from the FBI field office called me back five minutes ago. This isn't just a local real estate scam. Raymond Vance and Samuel are tied to an interstate syndicate currently under federal investigation for laundering cartel funds through West Coast municipal development projects.”

My breath caught in my throat. Cartel money. My father-in-law, the respected real estate advisor and pillars of San Francisco society, was laundering drug money through city zoning boards.

“What do we do?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Get to my office in the Financial District immediately,” Rachel instructed. “I’ve arranged for two federal marshals to meet you at the underground parking entrance on California Street. Do not go home. Do not call Christopher. Your husband’s phone has been tapped by federal intelligence since we flagged his offshore accounts this afternoon.”

“Christopher is neck-deep in this,” I said bitterly, a tear finally breaking free and tracking down my cheek. “He watched them drug me. He held my hand while they stole my signature.”

“Then let them burn, Sabrina,” Rachel said fiercely. “Meet my marshals in twenty minutes.”

I hung up the phone and stepped out from the shelter, scanning the curb for an available cab. A dark sedan turned the corner down the street, slowing down as it approached my location. The high beams flashed twice, cutting through the foggy night.

Panic surged through my chest. Was it the federal marshals, or had Raymond’s security detail already discovered I was gone?

The passenger door swung open, and a man in a sharp grey suit stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Vance?” the man called out, flashing a shiny metallic badge under the streetlamp. “Special Agent Miller, FBI. Attorney Bennett sent us to secure you.”

I stared at the badge, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before letting out a shaky sigh of relief and stepping toward the car.