Whoever is staging this kill this didn’t intend subtlety or chaos.
Saint moves efficiently, distributing drinks, eyes always tracking Hartley’s orbit. I can feel her impatience like static. When she speaks again, it’s barely audible.
Saint drifts closer as we work, voice low enough to pass for idle commentary. “What do you think?” she asks. “If it were here, how would they do it?”
My attention doesn’t leave the room. “It won’t be today,” I say. Then, because my mouth is ahead of my judgment, I finish it. “It’ll be tonight.”
The word lands wrong. I feel it as soon as it’s out.
Saint goes still. Not frozen. Not startled. Just suddenly precise. She turns her head toward me, eyes sharp now, fully engaged.
“How do you know that?”
I release a sigh and my exasperation with it. “My broker… my sister texted earlier. Said it’s definitely tonight.”
“And you conveniently forgot to mention this,” she says, tone flat.
“I was distracted,” I say. Which is true. “A lotwas happening.”
The explanation sounds thinner the longer it sits in the air. Her expression doesn’t harden. It sharpens.
Assessment, not anger.
I recognize the look immediately, and a cold weight settles in my chest. She doesn’t believe me. Or rather, she believes the information but not the omission. Trust doesn’t fracture loudly. It goes quiet. And hers is already gone for me.
I tell myself I’ll explain later. That this isn’t the place. That timing matters.
Saint hasn’t taken her eyes off Hartley for a full minute. “I’m warning him anyway.”
“No,” I say. “Wait.”
But she doesn’t. She makes her way over. Not too fast but fast enough I can’t rush over and stop her without drawing every eye in this room to me.
She adjusts her grip on the bottle she’s holding, angling her body just enough to bring Hartley into reach. The choice is written in the tension of her shoulders, the way her weight shifts forward.
I know she’s committing.
I should stop her.
I don’t.
Fuck Alejandro and his selective honesty.
Fuck the pauses, the omissions, the way he talks like he’s thinking three moves ahead while refusing to tell me which board we’re playing on. I’m done letting him meter information like it’s his to ration. Whatever happens after this brunch, I’m telling him to fuck off and meaning it.
I move with the line of staff, tray balanced, champagne bottle cold and sweating against my palm. My eyes never leave Hartley.
He’s holding a flute. Still mostly full. He keeps lifting it, taking small distracted sips, the way men do when they’re listening just enough to seem polite while scanning for their next conversation. He’s relaxed. Comfortable. Untouched by the idea that someone, somewhere, has decided he’s a message.
That flute is my opening.
I adjust my pace, angling toward him, already calculating the distance, the timing, the exact phrasing. Not a warning. Not a speech. Just enough to force movement. Enough to break pattern.
Someone steps directly into my path.
Another server. Too close. Too slow. I shift around them without a word, but the half-second costs me. A woman to my left catches my eye, lifts her empty glass with a hopeful tilt.
I stop.
