A few days later.
It was a day after Natalie Martinez's burial.
A black luxury car tore through the narrow roads of the old town, its engine roaring against the quiet morning.
Outside the window, traditional storefronts, hanging lanterns, and early pedestrians passed in a blur. It was a charming view, the kind tourists paid to see.
But Blake Martinez was in deep grief. He could not enjoy a single second of it.
He sat in the back seat, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His face was calm, but inside him, the grief quickly turned into rage. A rage coiled like a viper ready to strike.
His daughter had not died by her own hand.
That truth burned in his chest.
The investigation had finally yielded results. It was not Axel Knight, the culprit. But the real enemy had been hiding behind corporate smiles and polite handshakes.
The Wright Group.
