He blocked my forearm with his left elbow, the force of the collision sending a numbing shock up my arm.

The skillet slipped from my grip.

It clattered loudly against the stainless steel stove before landing on the floor.

Julian grabbed the collar of my sweater and yanked me forward.

My forehead struck his collarbone, dazing me for a second.

The smell of his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic scent of his blood and the sharp aroma of garlic from my prep station.

“We have the logs, Clara,” he whispered in my ear as he dragged me toward the pantry.

“Harris has the entire folder on his encrypted drive.”

“Every fake ID, every wire transfer you made to hide the money.”

“You’re going down for fraud, and I’m taking my share.”

I clawed at his hands, trying to loosen his grip on my neck.

My fingernails dug into the soft skin of his wrists.

He winced but didn’t let go.

We stumbled backward into the walk-in pantry.

The motion-sensor light clicked on above us, casting a bright, clinical glare over the rows of glass jars.