Chapter 7 - The Raid at The HearthBy 1:00 PM, Robert had arranged for us to meet two Fulton County sheriff’s deputies outside the sleek glass entrance of The Hearth.
The afternoon sun was bright, shining off the polished mahogany window frames and brass door handles that Chloe had designed with her own hands. Inside, the dining room was buzzing with the early afternoon lunch rush—wealthy professionals, local politicians, and food critics sipping wine beneath sparkling chandeliers.
Damian stood near the host stand, wearing a pristine navy suit, smiling charm as he greeted a table of regulars.
Then the front doors swung open.
Four uniformed sheriff's deputies, accompanied by two state labor investigators and Robert Vance, stepped into the dining room. The ambient chatter of cutlery and laughter plummeted into an immediate, stunned silence.
"Damian Prescott?" the lead deputy called out, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Damian’s smile froze. His dark eyes flicked from the officer to Robert, and finally to me and Chloe standing just outside the threshold. For a split second, the polished, arrogant facade cracked, exposing the raw, ugly shock underneath.
"What is the meaning of this?" Damian demanded, stepping forward, his hands raised in defensive authority. "This is a fine-dining establishment. I am in the middle of lunch service!"
"We have a search warrant for this facility regarding financial record fraud and labor violations," the investigator announced loudly, pulling a thick stack of papers from his folder. "We also have a temporary protective order served on behalf of Chloe Sterling-Cross."
Gasps rippled through the dining room. Several patrons put down their forks, pulling out their phones to record the scene.
"This is ridiculous!" Damian sneered, his face flushing deep crimson. He pointed a trembling finger at Chloe. "She is my wife! She's mentally unstable—she ran away last night because she couldn't handle her duties!"
"Mr. Prescott," the lead deputy cut in, stepping into Damian's personal space. "Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"You can't touch me!" Damian yelled, stepping back. "Do you know who I am? Do you know who sits at my tables?!"
The officer didn't debate him. With practiced efficiency, he grabbed Damian’s wrist, twisted him around against the mahogany host stand, and clicked the steel handcuffs over his wrists.
The metallic clack echoed clearly across the silent restaurant.
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As the officers escorted a shouting, red-faced Damian out past his wealthy patrons, Robert turned to Chloe and offered his arm.
"Now, Chloe," Robert said gently. "Let's go get your life back."
