The roar of maternal rage that rose in my chest was primal, an ancient and powerful force. But years of corporate warfare, of hostile takeovers and boardroom betrayals, had taught me to sheathe my emotions in ice. The mother felt the fire, but the Chairwoman took control. The huntress had her cause.

I did not need to panic. I did not need to call a lawyer. The entire game was already laid out on the chessboard in front of me. I had been watching it unfold for two days. Peterson was not just a bully; he was a clumsy one.

My thumbs flew across the screen of my phone, my heart pounding a frantic, mother’s rhythm, but my mind was a blade of cold, clear steel.

Anna (to Chloe): “The man in the ill-fitting blue suit, right? The one who spent twenty minutes gossiping with the hostess instead of checking the reservation manifest?”

The detail was a signal, a coded message to her: I see everything. I am already here. You are not alone.

Chloe (reply, frantic): “Yes! That’s him! He’s calling 911 right now! He’s got me in the back office! He took my phone, I’m hiding it! Mom, what do I do?”