“Come. Let’s discuss what Radley Enterprises might do for your school.”
The weight of the room pressed down, every glittering guest suddenly background noise, nothing but shadows at the edges of Radley’s reach. Jude’s pulse hammered against the wire taped to his chest, as though it might betray him before he opened his mouth. Callum’s smirk widened, his hand brushing Jude’s arm, guiding him forward with mockery disguised as escort. Radley turned, leading the way towards the corridor sinking below the house, down into darker halls where the sea’s roar was only a dull echo through stone.
And Jude followed, because he had no choice.
chapter twenty-four
High Risk
Warren watched Jude disappear down the corridor, swallowed by the swell of bodies and the hush of the house. He knew what lay beyond. Stairs, a basement, walls too thick for sight or sound. Out of reach. Out of his hands.
His gut clenched.
He forced himself to move, champagne flutes chiming as he slipped through sequins and smoke. He should’ve been focused. Counting heads. Noting who handed what to whom, the folded notes passed palm to palm, the powder dusting glass surfaces. That was his role tonight: eyes on the floor, feeding back surveillance intel, maintaining cover.
And he should’ve been grateful they’d even let him do that.
Because none of this would hold in court. His word was compromised. They couldn’t put him in the witness box after he’d crossed the line, after he’d laid himself in Jude Ellison’s bed. That was why they hadn’t trusted him with an earpiece. Why Patel had benched him the moment his involvement blurred into something personal. He was here on sufferance, only because Naomi had vouched for him.
He felt like a civvy. Present but stripped of authority.
A body with no weight.
Technically, he was still a Detective Sergeant. Still carried the warrant card. He could make arrests if he wanted to. And as his gaze swept the room to the clusters by the windows, the men loitering at the marble bar, there were plenty who should be in cuffs. The cocaine alone was enough to justify a raid.
But it wouldn’t touch Radley.
Nothing would. Not unless Jude got him on record.
Not unless the wire did its job.
And Warren had to stand here and pretend he wasn’t listening to silence. That he wasn’t helpless while Jude walked deeper into danger. His chest burned. Every instinct screaming to move, to put himself between Jude and the jaws closing around him. But instinct was how officers got killed. How operations got tanked. How the bad guys got away.
So he forced himself to work. Tray down, swap for another, sweep the room. Mark the pair of men tucked by the windows trading rolls of cash. Note the lieutenant in the far corner, hand never straying far from his jacket pocket. But the ache didn’t ease. Jude was gone from sight. Downstairs, somewhere the surveillance cams couldn’t reach. His voice absent in Warren’s ear.
Warren was blind.
The party noise dulled, so he pushed through the doors into the back kitchen. Naomi was there, ushering a pale womanwith a baby out through the exit, voice low and calm, hand on the mother’s elbow. Warren caught only fragments—safe place, straight through, don’t look back—before the door closed on them.
He stacked the tray of empty flutes by the sink, feeding glasses into the industrial dishwasher to keep his hands moving. When Naomi came back in, he jutted his chin towards the door.
“Who was that?”
Her expression tightened. “Graham’s mistress. Or was. Kid’s his. Vivienne made sure they crossed paths tonight.”
“Christ. What’s she playing at?”
Naomi rubbed a hand across her face. “Told you she’s setting the stage for something big. Wouldn’t be surprised if she drops a divorce petition before dessert.”
“So Radley might be happy trading the mansion for a cell before the night’s out.”
“If we’re lucky.” Then her eyes cut to him. “But why are you in here? You’re meant to be eyes on.”
Warren slammed the dishwasher shut. “I can’t stand there pouring drinks while he’s down there blind. Callum’s glued to him, Radley’s circling. He shouldn’t be in that room alone.”
Naomi stepped in, close enough he could smell her perfume beneath the tang of bleach and lemon oil. It shot him with a harsh reminder. That once, he’d been hers. That perfume had sat on their shared dresser in the bedroom of their flat in south London. And he’d never worried about her the way he was Jude. He’d never risked anything for her.
“You think I don’t know that?” Naomi said, voice low, so as not to be caught beyond the walls.
