I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What’s happening? Well, Robert, I’ve slept with my ex-boyfriend’s father in his office, and then his brother in the pool house, and I’m currently having a minor existential crisis about whether I’m the worst person alive or just spectacularly bad at revenge plots.
Me: Everything’s fine. The blizzard has everyone snowed in. The gala is tonight.
Robert: The gala is perfect. You’ll meet their business associates. Pay attention to conversations. Names, deals, anything useful.
Me: I will.
I won’t. Or I will, but not for the reasons he thinks.
Robert: Have you learned anything about their operations? The money movements I asked about?
My fingers freeze. I should tell him about the encrypted messages I’ve seen on Donovan’s laptop.
But I don’t.
Me: Nothing concrete yet. I’ll keep looking.
When did I start lying to Robert? When did I start protecting the people I’m supposed to be destroying?
I toss my phone onto the bed and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Who even am I anymore?
A knock at my door saves me from spiraling further.
“Come in.”
One of the housekeeping staff enters, carrying a garment bag. “Mr. Hale asked me to bring this for you. For tonight’s gala.” Shehangs it on the closet door and leaves before I can ask which Mr. Hale sent it.
I unzip the bag slowly.
The dress is stunning. Deep bloodred silk that catches the light. Simple cut, and full, elegant without trying too hard.
There’s a note pinned to the hanger in handwriting I recognize as Grant’s.
You’ll need something appropriate for tonight. - G
I run my fingers over the silk and try not to think about how he knew my exact size.
White lights are everywhere at the main resort. Garlands wrapped around every surface. A massive Christmas tree in the lobby that has to be twenty feet tall. Tables draped in cream linens, crystal everywhere, staff in formal uniforms moving through the crowd with champagne.
The guests are wealthy, polished, and the kind of people who winter in Aspen and summer in the Hamptons.
I spot Grant across the room, deep in conversation with two men in tuxedos. He looks devastating in all black, with his silver hair perfectly styled, commanding attention without even trying.
As if sensing my stare, he looks up. Our eyes meet across the crowd.
He excuses himself from his conversation and walks toward me with that confident stride that makes people move out of his way without him having to ask.
“Samantha.” His voice is warm. “You look incredible.”
“The dress is beautiful. Thank you.”
“It suits you.” He offers his arm. “Come. There are people you should meet.”
I take his arm, and I’m hyperaware of the warmth of his body through the fabric of his jacket.
He guides me through the crowd, stopping at different clusters of guests. Each time, he introduces me the same way. “This is Samantha Allen. She’s under Hale protection.”
