The wail of approaching police sirens slices through the night air. The sound grows deafeningly loud.
The remaining crowd in the square scatters rapidly in all directions. People do not want to be questioned about the scam.
A large group of panicked teenagers pushes past Anissa. Shoulders slam into her ribs. The surge of bodies violently breaks her line of sight with the man in the suit.
Anissa stumbles backward from a hard shove. Her sneakers slip on the wet pavement. She loses her grip on Ashanti's sleeve in the chaotic rush.
"Ashanti!" Anissa calls out.
Her voice is completely drowned out by the blaring sirens and the shouting pedestrians. The flashing red and blue lights reflect off the storefront windows.
Realizing she is separated and exposed, Anissa ducks into the nearest narrow alleyway to avoid the incoming police cruisers. If she is caught and identified, Julian will destroy her.
The alley is pitch black. It smells of stale rain and overflowing dumpsters. It is a stark, suffocating contrast to the bright street.
Anissa pulls out her phone to text Ashanti. Her hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The harsh blue screen illuminates her anxious face.
Before she can type a single letter, a heavy, gloved hand clamps down over her phone. The hand pushes her device down with terrifying force.
Anissa gasps. Her combat instincts flare instantly. She violently twists her hips and throws a sharp, brutal elbow backward toward her attacker's face.
The man effortlessly catches her elbow with his free hand. His palm absorbs the heavy impact without him making a single sound. It is like hitting a brick wall.
Anissa spins around. Her back hits the cold brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the breath from her lungs. She finds herself trapped between the rough wall and the man in the tailored suit.
Bowen Hammond steps closer. The faint, flickering street light from the main road catches the sharp, dangerous angles of his jawline.
Anissa glares at him. Her chest heaves.
"Who the hell are you?" she demands. "Back off, or I scream for the cops right outside."
Bowen tilts his head. His dark eyes scan her face. His expression is an agonizing mix of profound relief and deep, gut-wrenching sorrow.
He completely ignores her threat. He steps half an inch closer. He invades her personal space, using his broad shoulders to block her only exit.
Bowen opens his mouth. His voice is a low, rough rumble. "The Arizona sandstorms," he says, the words hanging heavy in the damp air. "They always smelled like ozone and crushed sage right before they hit. Do you remember?"
A memory no one in Washington D. C. could possibly know.
Anissa's breath hitches. A sudden, sharp spike of pain pierces her temples. It feels like an ice pick driving into her skull at the exact sound of those specific words.
She drops her phone. She clutches her head with both hands. She squeezes her eyes shut. A blurry, fragmented image of a blinding desert sunset flashes violently through her mind.
Bowen reaches out. His hands move to steady her trembling shoulders. His voice softens into a desperate, urgent whisper.
"Look at me," he says.
Anissa violently slaps his hands away. Her survival instinct overrides the strange, blinding headache. She views his touch as an immediate attack.
"Julian sent you," she accuses, her voice shaking with rage. "He hired you to dig up my background, didn't he? To terrorize me?"
Bowen lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. The sound is hollow.
"Julian Sinclair is the last person on earth I take orders from," Bowen states.
He introduces himself clearly. "My name is Bowen Hammond." He stares deeply into her eyes. He is searching. He is waiting for a spark of recognition to light up her face.
Anissa stares back blankly. Her face registers nothing but hostility and deep, defensive confusion.
Bowen's expression hardens. The muscle in his jaw ticks. He realizes the absolute depth of the psychological damage she has endured. The amnesia is real. She truly does not know him.
He takes a slow step back, giving her physical space. But his voice remains firm.
"You do not belong in the Sinclair Estate," Bowen says.
Anissa scoffs. She lifts her chin, her pride flaring. "My miserable marriage is none of your business. Get out of my way."
Before Bowen can reply, a metal trash can at the end of the alley is violently kicked aside. The sound echoes loudly off the brick walls.
Ashanti emerges from the shadows. Her eyes are locked onto Bowen. A lethal, customized combat knife is already drawn in her hand. The blade catches the faint light.
Bowen does not even turn his head to look at Ashanti. He keeps his eyes fixed on Anissa. But his posture shifts instantly into a relaxed, deadly combat stance.
