Bradley was caught off guard by her quick agreement. "You..."

Veronica extended her hand with a small smile. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years."

Still processing her decision, Bradley shook her hand automatically. "It was nothing."

Without further ceremony, Veronica gathered her belongings and walked out. Bradley remained rooted to the spot, watching her retreating figure with disbelief etched on his face.

"Why are you standing there looking lost?" Frank's voice broke through his thoughts as he clapped a hand on Bradley's shoulder.

"Veronica just quit," Bradley said, his voice hollow.

Frank paused, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Really?" The skepticism in his tone was evident.

He let out a derisive snort. "Don't worry. She'll be back. I'd bet my salary that before the month is out, she'll return with Mrs. Dennis Senior's backing."

Bradley remained silent, unconvinced. Something about Veronica's recent behavior suggested this wasn't just another power play. This time felt different—final.

The next two days passed in relative quiet for Veronica at home. She hadn't heard from Sabrina, who was likely preoccupied with Niall.

Late the following night, her phone lit up with a message from Whitney. She was running a high fever.

Veronica immediately closed the novel she'd been reading, grabbed her car keys, and rushed out into the rainy night.

The downpour that had persisted all day showed no signs of relenting. The streets glistened under the sporadic streetlights, and the old town where Whitney lived was practically deserted.

Pulling up to a pharmacy near Whitney's neighborhood, Veronica dashed inside to purchase medication. As she returned to her car and settled into the driver's seat, the passenger door suddenly opened.

Her heart lurched as a tall figure slid inside. Before she could react, the cold barrel of a gun was pointed at her temple.

"Don't move," a deep voice commanded.

The intruder was dressed entirely in black, his face concealed behind a mask, and his hat pulled low. Only his eyes were visible—cold, sharp, and dangerous.

Veronica slowly raised her hands, keeping them visible as her mind raced through possible scenarios.

Without warning, the man reached over and took her bag and phone. "I won't hurt you," he said, his voice low and controlled. "Just take me where I need to go, and you're free to leave."

Before Veronica could respond, he gestured with the gun. "Drive."

The surrounding area was completely deserted, the pharmacy now a dim light in the distance. As Veronica contemplated her options, a metallic, coppery scent filled the car—blood.

She started the engine calmly. "Where to?"

"Walker Dock," he replied curtly. "I'll give you directions."

"No need," Veronica said, keeping her voice steady. "I know how to get there."

They drove in tense silence, raindrops pelting the windshield. Veronica focused on the road ahead, maintaining a steady speed, neither too fast nor too slow. The man kept the gun trained on her, but his gaze gradually shifted, growing more assessing.

Veronica didn't notice the change in his scrutiny, her attention divided between driving safely and planning her next move.

After about thirty minutes, they approached Walker Dock. The area was industrial and desolate, especially at this hour.

"Pull over under that tree," the man instructed, pointing ahead.

"Alright." Veronica smoothly brought the car to a stop exactly where he'd indicated.

The gun remained pointed at her as the man prepared to exit. Veronica, with measured movements, reached for her bag.

"I have some medicine for your wound," she offered, her voice calm. The smell of blood had intensified during the drive, suggesting his injury was significant.

The man hesitated, clearly surprised by her offer. After a moment's consideration, he shook his head slightly and exited the vehicle, disappearing quickly into the shadows of the rainy night.

Since he had rejected her help, Veronica didn't push further. She turned the car around and headed back toward Whitney's place, her mind replaying the bizarre encounter.

Minutes later, the man boarded a waiting boat at the dock. Once safely onboard, he removed his hat and mask, revealing a handsome but strained face. His phone rang immediately.

As someone attended to the bleeding wound on his side, he answered the call.

"Marco!" Nate's anxious voice came through. "Are you okay? My men couldn't reach you. Where are you?"

"Had a slight complication," Marco replied, wincing as antiseptic was applied to his wound. "I'm at the wharf now."

"Thank God," Nate exhaled audibly. "What happened? I've been worried sick!"

After a brief explanation and assurance that he was fine, Marco ended the call. He turned his gaze toward the distant tree where Veronica had dropped him off, deep in thought.

Half an hour later, Veronica arrived at Whitney's apartment. She found her friend bundled under blankets, her face flushed with fever.

After helping Whitney take the medicine and eat some soup, Veronica sat by her bedside, watching as her friend's discomfort gradually eased.

Whitney wrinkled her nose suddenly, looking at Veronica with concern. "Why do I smell blood? Ver, are you hurt?"

"No," Veronica replied truthfully.

It was the gunman who had been wounded. Some of his blood had transferred to her bag and phone when he'd handled them. She'd wiped them down when she first arrived, but the metallic scent lingered, a reminder of her strange and dangerous encounter in the rain.