She set them on the low table near the leather sofa.

“The girls are upstairs in the playroom, Mrs. Carter,” she said gently. “They are drawing pictures of the garden.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Alvarez,” I said, forcing a small smile.

“Eat something, Emily,” Richard said, gesturing to the tray. “You look pale.”

I poured a cup of tea, but my stomach was too tight to even think about food.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

The rain outside grew heavier, turning the lawn into a blur of dark green and gray.

Every time my phone vibrated with a news alert or an email, my heart leaped into my throat.

At three in the afternoon, Nora’s phone rang.

She picked it up immediately, her face serious.

“Nora Singh,” she said.

Richard and I watched her, waiting for any sign.

Nora’s eyebrows rose slightly, and she nodded.

“I understand. Thank you, Jerry. Send the signed order to my office immediately.”

She hung up and looked at us.

“The judge granted the temporary restraining order,” Nora said, a small, rare smile breaking through her professional reserve. “All accounts tied to the Whitmore Foundation are frozen, effective immediately.”