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He took a slow step toward her, lowering the phone.

“You deleted the call log,” he said, voice quiet but sharp enough to draw blood. “Who called me?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out for a beat. Then she gave a nervous laugh. “Lorenzo, why would I do something like that? Maybe your phone just glitched or—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” he cut in, eyes narrowing. “You picked up my phone, didn’t you?”

Esther stiffened, smile faltering for just a second—then reappeared, strained and forced. “I was just... worried you’d get more upset. You’re already stressed, and I thought—”

His hand slammed down on the table, rattling the glasses. Michael, returning halfway across the room, stopped short at the sound.

“Who called me, Esther?” he hissed.

Esther didn’t answer, but the look on her face said it all—and it was enough to make Lorenzo stiffen instantly.

“Krystal,” he muttered under his breath. He lifted his phone and began dialing her number.

“Lorenzo, wait—please!” Esther reached for his phone, trying to stop him. “Listen to me. Can’t you just talk to me first? We finally met again after so long, Lorenzo!”

But he roughly shook her off.

Now that he knew she wasn’t sick, he no longer felt the need to handle her gently. Esther stumbled back, landing hard on the floor—but Lorenzo didn’t even glance her way.

He focused on his phone, calling Krystal again. No answer.

“Lorenzo, please…” Esther’s voice cracked as she reached for him again. “Let’s just sit down and talk for a minute.”

He turned to her, eyes cold and flashing with fury. “Esther, have some goddamn respect for yourself.”

She flinched. He had never spoken to her like that before.

“If you want to have even a basic interaction with me in the future, stop overstepping your damn limits,” he barked.

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his keys from the table and stormed out of the bar, his steps sharp and angry.

***

Krystal threw her hands over her face as the car came hurtling toward her—but at the last second, a hard shove knocked her sideways. She flew across the pavement, crashing to the ground with a thud, just as the car missed her leg by mere inches and smashed into a concrete wall with a bone-shaking crash. The sound echoed down the empty road.

Dirt and dust clouded the air as she gasped for breath, blinking away tears.

“Honey, are you okay?” Darren’s voice broke through her haze.

She looked up, dazed. “Darren?”

He was already kneeling beside her, holding her arms, his face pale with panic. Shopping bags he’d been carrying were scattered across the sidewalk, their contents spilled—shirts, boxes, receipts—all forgotten.

“I’m fine,” she said breathlessly, though her hands trembled. She sat up with his help and quickly wiped the grit and blood from her scraped arms, adrenaline pushing her to her feet.

Together, they sprinted toward the crashed vehicle. Steam hissed from under the crumpled hood. Darren reached the driver’s side first and yanked open the door, grabbing the man inside by the collar and dragging him out like dead weight. The driver hit the pavement hard, groaning as his body folded onto the asphalt.

Krystal pulled out her phone and dialed 911, her voice urgent as she rattled off their location and described the crash.

Meanwhile, Darren shoved the man down, twisting his arms behind his back with a trained, unrelenting grip. He planted a knee in the man's back and used his other hand to pin his head to the ground.

Krystal ended the call and moved closer, fury flaring in her chest. She kicked the man hard in the leg.

“Why were you trying to hit me?” she snapped. Her voice shook from sheer rage. She bent down and picked up a jagged rock from the roadside, waving it at him threateningly, eyes blazing. “Talk. Who sent you? If you tell us now, it might help your case before the cops get here.”