For several seconds after the slap, Diane Pritchard didn't understand what she had done.
She looked at her own hand.
Then at Amara.
Then at the guards.
"You saw that," Diane said quickly.
Nobody answered.
"She moved toward me."
Marcus stared at her.
"No, she didn't."
Diane looked at him.
"What?"
"You struck her."
The words were quiet.
But they landed harder than shouting would have.
Amara stood perfectly still.
Her cheek was turning red.
Her hand remained over her stomach.
The medical monitor continued vibrating.
Marcus noticed.
"Ma'am, do you need an ambulance?"
Amara shook her head.
"Not yet."
Her voice was controlled.
Almost unnaturally controlled.
She looked toward the security cameras.
"Preserve every recording from the last fifteen minutes."
Diane immediately interrupted.
"She's manipulating this."
A man's voice came from the doorway.
"No."
Everyone turned.
Luis Mendes, the mall's security director, stood there holding a tablet.
"I've already reviewed the footage."
Diane's face went pale.
Luis turned the tablet around.
The recording showed everything.
Amara entering.
Diane approaching.
The conversation.
The security call.
Amara standing still.
And finally—
the slap.
There was no ambiguity.
No threatening gesture.
No attack.
No self-defense.
Diane had simply struck her.
Luis looked at Diane.
"You need to step away from the sales floor."
"I've worked here fifteen years."
"Step away."
"I was defending myself."
"The video says otherwise."
Emma's livestream had become enormous.
4,600 viewers.
Then:
6,000.
Comments poured across the screen.
Why did she hit the pregnant woman?
This is disgusting.
Someone call the police.
She's literally doing nothing.
The first police car arrived at 2:58 p.m.
Two NYPD officers entered.
Diane immediately rushed toward them.
"Officers, thank God."
She pointed toward Amara.
"That woman attempted to steal from the store. She became violent when I confronted her."
The lead officer held up a hand.
"Ma'am, step back."
"But—"
"Step back."
He looked at Amara.
"Are you injured?"
"I'm documenting my vitals."
She extended her wrist.
Then handed him her driver's license.
He read it.
His expression changed.
He looked at his partner.
"Mrs. Volkov?"
Diane frowned.
"That's probably fake."
The officer looked up.
"Excuse me?"
"Run it."
"I intend to."
Amara said quietly:
"You should check whose property you're standing in."
The officer stared at her.
Then his radio crackled.
He walked several feet away.
Listened.
His face changed.
When he returned, he looked uncomfortable.
Outside, three black Cadillac Escalades pulled to the curb.
They stopped almost simultaneously.
Five men stepped out.
Tailored suits.
Earpieces.
Disciplined movements.
The lead man was enormous.
Six-foot-four.
Broad shoulders.
Eastern European features.
He entered the store.
His eyes immediately found Amara.
He crossed the floor.
"Mrs. Volkov."
Amara nodded.
"We received your biometric alert."
His eyes moved to the monitor.
Then to her cheek.
His jaw tightened.
"Mr. Volkov is en route."
Diane stared at him.
"Who are you?"
The man ignored her.
"Shall we take you to Dr. Reeves?"
"Not yet."
Amara looked toward the display case.
"I'd like to finish my purchase."
Diane nearly laughed.
"You still want the necklace?"
"Yes."
"You are not purchasing anything."
The police officer stepped between them.
"Let's calm down."
Diane snapped:
"Officer, she assaulted me."
The officer stared at her.
"Do you have evidence?"
"She—"
"The footage?"
Diane fell silent.
Then the store phone rang.
Gabriella, the assistant manager, answered.
Her expression changed.
She looked at Diane.
"It's corporate."
Diane grabbed the phone.
"Hello?"
A man's voice came through.
Gabriella could hear only fragments.
"Do you know who she—"
Diane's face tightened.
"Sir, I'm handling this."