Saturday night pulsed with restless energy. The club throbbed with laughter and clinking glasses.

Jenna Roland navigated between private rooms in stiletto heels. Champagne flutes cast fractured light across her path.

By 3 AM, the last patrons finally departed.

She massaged her aching ankles, fingertips still carrying the rich aroma of red wine.

The dressing room mirror reflected her exhaustion. Smudged eyeliner framed her weary eyes.

"Stella, I'm heading out," she called toward the lounge.

Night air greeted her with the first chill of early autumn.

The taxi glided past neon-lit streets. In the rearview mirror, a black Volkswagen Passat maintained steady pursuit.

Her phone screen illuminated. Liam Hill's contact topped her recent calls list.

Her finger hovered momentarily before selecting Tristan Ashcroft's name instead.

"Boss, that car's back."

The clink of crystal echoed through the receiver. Tristan's voice carried a whiskey warmth. "Text me the plate number."

The driver studied her through the mirror. "Miss, should I call the police?"

"No." She tightened her grip on the phone. "Take Sunset Boulevard instead."

Park Avenue's flickering streetlights revealed the black sedan maintaining precise distance.

A sudden vibration. An unknown number flashed on her screen.

"Miss Roland, we're in position."

Two blinding headlights appeared in the rearview, boxing in the Volkswagen.