Five Minutes to Midnight

The hum of high-end conversation in The Obsidian felt suffocating to Evelyn as she crossed the polished marble floor. Every step toward Table Four felt like walking across a minefield where a single wrong move could trigger an explosion.

At her shoulder, Gilbert hissed a final, desperate warning.

“Evie, stop! If you ruin this for us, Moretti will have your skin before midnight!”

She ignored him. Her hand was clenched tight around the folded paper napkin, the ink from her frantic handwriting slightly smeared against her palm.

8:52 p.m.

Three minutes left.

As she neared the table, Lorenzo Moretti looked up from his wineglass. His dark eyes didn't just meet hers; they pinned her in place. There was an predatory intelligence in that gaze—a calculated coolness that suggested he missed nothing.

Beside him, Celeste Vane adjusted her diamond necklace, offering a polite, icy smile. “Is there a problem with the table service, waitress?”

“No, ma'am,” Evelyn said, her voice remarkably steady despite the violent pounding of her ribs.

She stepped closer to Lorenzo, pretending to clear away a stray piece of silverware. With a subtle, lightning-fast movement, she slipped the folded napkin directly beside his heavy crystal water tumbler, tucking it under the edge of his fork.

Lorenzo’s gaze shifted down to the napkin. Then back to her face.

Before he could speak, Evelyn murmured three words so quietly only he could hear:

“Read it now.”

Then she turned sharply on her heel, pulling her tray against her chest, and walked away without looking back.

Lorenzo didn't move for two seconds. His massive bodyguard, a towering mountain of a man named Viktor standing three paces behind the table, stiffened, his hand twitching toward his jacket.

“Sir?” Viktor grunted, his eyes locking onto Evelyn’s retreating back. “Should I grab her?”

“Wait,” Lorenzo commanded softly.

His long, elegant fingers reached out. They picked up the folded white square. He unfolded it slowly, his dark eyes scanning the frantic, torn ink scribbles:

*Your fiancée set a trap. Don't use north exit.*

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Lorenzo’s impenetrable face. Then, his expression hardened into stone.

He didn't look at Celeste. Instead, his eyes darted to the large decorative mirror reflecting the back service hallway.

In the reflection, near the north exit sign, a shadow moved. A subtle, unnatural flash of light—the glint of a silenced rifle barrel catching the track lighting.

8:53 p.m.

Two minutes.

Lorenzo crumpled the napkin in his fist. He turned his head slightly toward Celeste, who was once again checking her diamond-encrusted wristwatch with a delicate, trembling smile.

“Celeste,” Lorenzo said, his voice dangerously smooth, devoid of any warmth. “Isn't it wonderful how well planned tonight’s celebration is?”

Celeste beamed, completely unaware. “Oh, Lory, I told you. Everything is going to be absolute perfection.”