“Please, I didn’t do anything!” Gillian cried, her voice cracking as she was pulled back into the bedroom by her arm.

“Get on the floor,” the officer told Yasmin, pushing her down onto her knees.

Yasmin’s expensive silk blouse caught on the sharp brass edge of the nightstand, tearing with a loud rip.

I watched them from the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath shallow.

Ana Brennan stepped through the doorway, her long wool coat damp from the Sonoma mist.

She looked at me first, her sharp eyes scanning my face for any signs of physical harm.

“Are you alright, Alana?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with genuine concern.

I nodded slowly, though my hands were still shaking against the heavy cotton sheets.

Ana turned her gaze to Mark, who was now kneeling on the floor, his wrists bound tightly behind his back with plastic zip-ties.

“It’s over, Mark,” Ana said, stepping toward the bedside table.

She picked up the tablet I had been holding and tapped the glowing screen.

“You should have read the digital attachments more carefully before forcing her signature,” she added.