The afternoon sun bathed the streets of Braspolis in a familiar haze of movement — cars and buses going or coming, trucks weaving their way toward the highway, drivers honking, passengers lost in their thoughts. It was just another day in the city, bustling, chaotic, and alive.The sleek glass exterior of the Glamour building reflected the light in its façade, establishing it as the center of the storm quietly building inside.In one of the corridors of Glamour, Mark strode with a stormy expression, the tension from his earlier conversation with Claudia still etched into his face. His gait was brisk, shoulders rigid, his frustration so palpable that colleagues instinctively gave him space. No one dared ask what had happened — they could read it plainly on his face.He pushed open the door to his office and found Karl already there, standing with his phone to his ear.“I know! I sent her to handle it,” Karl was saying, nodding as if the person on the other end could see his impatience.

Mark’s exclusive ringtone for Briana began to ring, and he snatched up the phone in an instant.“Hello, my darling?”Back at the Ferro House, Briana was still lounging comfortably on the deck chair in the master suite, the sun warm on her skin. There was some lightness to her voice, the kind that made her sound like a bird trilling joyfully from a branch.“Hello, dear husband!” she chirped.Mark, hoping he already knew what she was about to say, leaned in slightly over the desk. “Do you have good news for me?”“I do. I just received an invitation to a party tonight—”“We’re going! We are definitely going!” he blurted before she could finish the sentence.Briana blinked in surprise, wide-eyed for a moment. Then, a cascade of laughter bubbled out of her.“I didn’t know you were so eager to attend Mr. Miller’s party,” she teased, her voice filled with amusement.Mark laughed along. “I kind of... confirmed I was going to a few people here before I actually had an invitation.”“You little

Sergeant Ribeiro wiped the sweat from his brow, weary from a long day’s work but knowing there were still hours to go before he could rest.Now, seated in his office at the police precinct, he faced Patricio Nogueira — a sharp, energetic young lawyer in his thirties who had been sent to represent the Vasconcelos family in a situation that had grown increasingly uncomfortable.Patricio stood beside the chair offered to him, politely refusing to sit.There was a confidence in his stance, the kind that came not from arrogance but conviction. His skin was tanned, his expression sincere, and his smile the sort that belonged to a man who would fight until justice was served.Though he had neither a master’s nor a doctoral degree, his name came highly recommended.Ribeiro, reading through the attorney’s credentials, noted a past collaboration with Theodore Damascene on a corporate corruption case.“A partnership with Theodore Damascene, huh?” Ribeiro muttered, glancing up at the young man. “

Patricio turned to face Katrina fully, the room falling into a more intimate, serious silence.Katrina remained seated, her gaze drifting downward, caught in a fog of temptation she struggled to resist. An almost indecent thought slithered through her mind — if she simply leaned forward just a little, she could take Patricio into her mouth right then and there. The outline beneath his suit was undeniable. Her breath hitched.He’s definitely not wearing any underwear... and he’s bigger than Lawrence, she thought, eyes momentarily wide.“Miss Vasconcelos, did you understand?” Sergeant Ribeiro's voice snapped her out of the haze.Katrina jolted as though waking from a fever dream. “Argh! Sorry, Counselor Nogueira.”Patricio offered her a warm, understanding smile. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”“You must think I’m a foolish scatterbrain,” she said, flashing a sheepish grin.“It’s natural to feel overwhelmed,” he replied kindly.“I just want to get out of here.”“That’s what I said,”

Outside the grand façade of Sodré Mansion, night had fallen, and flashing lights painted streaks of red and blue across the stone walls. Police cars skidded to rough halts — some stopping over flowerbeds, others crushing carefully pruned hedges.No one gave a damn about the property of a criminal.From the flurry of doors slamming and boots hitting the pavement emerged officers, investigators, and forensic personnel, each with determined steps. At the forefront was Sergeant Ribeiro, stern and commanding, his eyes already scanning the scene like a man on a mission.“Let’s move, everyone,” he ordered crisply.The team advanced toward the entrance. A towering officer stepped forward, lifted his boot, and with one powerful kick, shattered the door open.Inside the mansion's pristine vestibule, several officers began upending trash bins, dumping their contents unceremoniously onto the gleaming floor. Nobody bothered with gloves or tarps. Nobody cared about the marble tiles or the once-imma