His touch is possessive, his smile never quite reaching his eyes as he guides her onto the sidewalk.
Mr. Faulks emerges from the limousine, every inch the powerful businessman. His expensive suit and perfectly coiffed hair exude an air of authority that bends the world around him. Cold calculation glimmers in his eyes as he surveys the gathered press.
I hunch my shoulders, angling my face away from their line of sight. Just another nameless spectator, unremarkable and forgettable. But my gaze never leaves Vivianne, drinking in every detail, cataloging every subtle shift in her expression.
This tableau before me—the doting fiancé, the dutiful daughter, the protective father—is all a carefully crafted illusion.
Vivianne's gaze darts nervously across the crowd, searching. Looking for an escape, perhaps? Her gaze sweeps past me, then immediately snaps back.
Our eyes lock.
The world falls away.
Electricity crackles between us, as potent as the day we met. The slight furrow of her brow. The way her fingers twist the fabric of her dress. The rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Her lips part in a silent gasp, and she sways. Prescott's arm shoots out, steadying her.
"Are you alright, darling?" Saccharine concern laces his words.
"I'm fine." She blinks rapidly, tearing her gaze from mine. "Just a bit lightheaded."
But the tremor in her hands, the flush creeping up her neck—she felt that jolt of recognition, that surge of desire.
The promise of possibility.
They make their way into the hotel, Marcus clearing a path through the throngs of reporters and photographers. Prescott guides her, never once removing his hand from her body. Her father walks ahead, leading.
Vivianne's gaze finds mine once more. A fleeting glance, heavy with unspoken words. Then she's gone, swallowed by the revolving doors, leaving me breathless in her wake.
The St. Regis is a monument to luxury, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Security is tight, but nothing I can't handle. I've spent the last two weeks memorizing the layout, the staff rotations, every possible entry and exit point.
She's not safe. Not with them. Every instinct screams at me to grab her and run. But I can't. Not yet. I need to be smart about this.
I slip away from the crowd, ducking into a narrow alley behind the St. Regis. The acrid stench of garbage mingles with the sweet rot of discarded food. A cat yowls, darting between overflowing dumpsters. My eyes adjust to the dim light, scanning for my target.
There—the service entrance. A cigarette dangles from the lips of a bored-looking security guard. I check my watch. Any second now...
A crash echoes from further down the alley. The guard's head snaps up, his hand moving to his radio. He hesitates, then heads toward the sound.
Merlin's timing is impeccable. Right on cue.
I slip through the door, the rush of cool air carrying the scent of bleach and freshly laundered linens. Voices echo from around the corner. I duck into a supply closet.
Uniforms hang in neat rows. I strip quickly, the rough fabric of the borrowed clothes scratching against my skin. The bow tie gives me trouble—it's been a while since I've tied one of these. Finally, it sits straight. I clip on a name tag that says "James."
I emerge, straightening my cuffs. A harried-looking woman rushes past, barking into a headset.
"We need more champagne in the Astor Ballroom, now."
Perfect.
I grab an empty tray and stride purposefully toward the kitchen. The cacophony slams into me—pots clanging, knives chopping, orders being shouted in a mix of English and rapid-fire Spanish. Steam billows from massive pots, carrying the rich aroma of simmering sauces.
"You. New guy." A red-faced chef points at me. "Take these canapés up. And don't drop them, or it's your ass."
I nod, loading my tray. The elevator ride gives me a moment to steady my nerves. The doors open, and I step into another world.
The Astor Ballroom glitters with wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbows across marble floors. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of cultivated voices. I weave through the crowd.
