Dominic raised one palm.

They went still.

Grace grasped the situation instantly. They were trained to disarm soldiers. They could fracture limbs. They could evacuate a room in ten seconds. But they lacked the knowledge to approach a mourning child wielding something lethal.

Dominic took a stride forward.

Sophie aimed the blade at him with both hands.

“Don’t come near me!”

Her voice fractured on the final syllable.

That tremor was the key.

Everyone else sensed a threat. Grace sensed devastation.

She had recognized that sound before, years ago, in her younger brother’s voice when social workers arrived to tear them apart after their mother’s passing. Leo had fought, bitten, screamed, and shattered a lamp against the wall. Grown-ups labeled him aggressive. Grace knew better.

A child did not transform into a hurricane without a reason.

Gently, Grace placed her tray down.

The scarred security guard closest to her obstructed her path immediately.

“Kitchen’s that way,” he grunted.

“She’s going to cut herself,” Grace replied.

“Not your concern.”

Grace peered past him at Sophie. The girl’s knuckles were bloodless around the knife hilt. Her gaze darted from her father to the exit to the shards on the floor. She wasn’t an aggressor. She was a captive.

Grace maneuvered around the guard.

He gripped her arm.

Dominic shifted his head.

For a heartbeat, his stare sliced through the room and anchored on Grace. She felt the frost of it, the gravity of a man accustomed to erasing people from existence with a single phrase.

Grace did not avert her eyes.

“She needs space,” she stated. “Not soldiers.”

The restaurant fell into a deeper hush.

Dominic scrutinized her: inexpensive black uniform, damp curls messily pinned at her neck, weary blue eyes, shoes worn thin from back-to-back shifts. Nothing about her suggested she belonged in his circle.

Except her composure.

After a beat, he gave a minuscule nod.

The guard let her go.

Grace navigated the debris cautiously, avoiding the slivers of glass. She did not confront Sophie head-on. She knelt near the foot of the table, far enough back that the girl did not feel cornered.

“Hi,” Grace said.

Sophie glared down at her. “Go away.”

“I will,” Grace replied. “Eventually. But I need to ask you something first.”

“I’ll cut you.”

“You might,” Grace concurred. “But that would create a massive mess, and I just scrubbed marinara off my apron. I’m not emotionally prepared for blood tonight.”

A few patrons blinked.

Sophie’s expression shifted in bewilderment.

Grace seized that split-second of hesitation and utilized it.

“My name’s Grace. I’m a waitress, which means I spend most of my life carrying things that are too hot, pretending rich people are funny, and knowing where the good dessert is hidden.”

Sophie’s tension eased by a fraction.

“I don’t want dessert.”

“That’s fine. I wasn’t offering dessert. I was offering information.”

“What information?”

Part 2: Grace inclined her head slightly, dropping her volume as if whispering a secret.

“The floor below you is covered in glass. If you jump down angry, you’ll slice your feet. Then people will fuss over you, and by the look on your face, you hate being fussed over.”

Sophie blinked rapidly.

Grace went on, “So here’s what we do. You hand me the knife. I hand you a clean napkin. Then you sit down on the table like a queen who has decided not to execute anybody today, and I clear a path.”

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