Chapter 7 - The Snake in the Grass
Three months passed.
Under Emma’s management, Rosalind’s underwent a complete transformation.
The cold, snobbish atmosphere that Priscilla had cultivated was dismantled. Emma instituted a policy where ten percent of the restaurant’s nightly profits were directed to a local food bank, and every Sunday morning, the kitchen opened its doors to serve high-end, nutritious meals to low-income families and seniors.
The public response was overwhelming. Reservations were booked solid four months in advance. Business executives, politicians, and celebrities clamored for a table, not just for the world-class food prepared by Chef Walter, but for the story of integrity that the restaurant represented.
Emma lived in a bright, sunlit one-bedroom apartment near Lincoln Park now—paid for by her legitimate, substantial salary. Her brother Beckett remained in the Indiana facility, sending her weekly letters that were slowly changing from bitter resentments to sincere expressions of gratitude.
Everything seemed perfect.
Until a rainy Thursday evening in November.
Emma was sitting in her office finalizing the Thanksgiving holiday schedules when her personal phone rang.
She didn't recognize the number, but unlike three months ago, she no longer felt a sudden cold pang of fear. She answered calmly. “Emma Frost.”
“Emma... please... don't hang up.”
It was her sister, Coraly. Her voice was hysterical, choked with ragged sobs.
Emma’s posture stiffened. “Coraly? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mom,” Coraly wept into the phone. “She’s... she’s in the ICU at Cook County Hospital. She had a stroke, Emma! The doctors say she might not make it through the night!”
Emma felt a cold lump form in her throat. Despite everything Wanda had done—the demands, the emotional abuse, the betrayal—she was still her mother.
“I’m coming,” Emma said immediately, standing up and grabbing her coat. “Which floor?”
“Third floor, ICU room 312,” Coraly cried. “Please hurry, Emma! She keeps calling your name!”
Emma hung up, her hands shaking slightly as she pulled on her trench coat. She walked quickly out of the office into the main dining room, looking for Gideon or Oliver.
Oliver was sitting at his usual corner table, reviewing property deeds with two of his business associates. He instantly noticed the distress on Emma’s face, excused himself from the men, and walked toward her.
“What happened?” Oliver asked, catching her by the elbow before she reached the front exit.
“My mother,” Emma said, her eyes wide with panic. “She had a stroke. She’s in the ICU at Cook County. I have to go.”
Oliver’s eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, sudden frown. “Who called you?”
“Coraly. My sister.”
Oliver turned his head sharply toward Gideon, who was standing near the entrance. “Gideon, check Cook County ICU admissions right now.”
Emma frowned, pulling her arm back gently. “Oliver, please, I don't have time for this! My sister was crying, she said Mom might die!”
Gideon looked up from his secure phone three seconds later, his face grave. “There is no patient named Wanda Frost admitted to Cook County Hospital, boss. Nor any surrounding hospital in the district.”
Emma stopped dead in her tracks. The air left her lungs. “What?”
“It’s a trap,” Oliver said, his voice instantly dropping to ice. “Coraly was paid or coerced.”
Before Emma could process the terrifying implication, her phone buzzed with a location pin sent from Coraly’s text thread—an abandoned industrial warehouse near the canal docks on the South Side.
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Then a second text arrived from an unknown number:
Come alone, Emma. If Falcone’s cars follow you, your mother and sister die for real.
