Then the video ends as she topples over into frat boy’s arms.
The sound of the fundraiser continues around me, Mom's voice carrying over the room as she talks and talks and talks. I know what she’s talking about. She’s talking about accountability, about the danger of deepfakes and manipulation on social media. The irony of what is happening would be funny if I weren't watching my entire life implode in real time.
I blink as the video replays. Then I stare at the stats displayed at the side of the screen, and the cold in my veins turns into a blazing inferno.
The video has already been watched a thousand times and has been shared hundreds of times. The comments are starting to pour in. Some defending me, some expressing shock, most saying things that make my stomach turn.
"Rona?" Caroline's voice seems to come from very far away. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I look up at her, the phone shaking in my hands, the noise of the fundraiser now surreal and distant.
"Caroline," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. "We have a problem."
And that’s the understatement of the century.
Chapter Two
Darhg
Theseeventsaresecuritynightmares. Too many people going in and out and too many blind spots to hide in.
But I have everything under control, as usual.
I stand at the ballroom entrance, my seven-foot-tall frame giving me a perfect view of the room. All exits are mapped. All lines of sight are clear.
This is what I do.What I'm good at.
Senator Quinn's voice carries across the room from the podium, but I pay it no attention. I’m not paid to care about what my principal says or does. My job is to keep her safe, that’s all.
I take a mental inventory of the people present.
Two hundred and thirty-seven donors are present at the brunch. Twelve waitstaff stand by the back wall, waiting for the senator to finish her speech and the guests to pour into the dining room. One hotel manager hovers near the service entrance.
Nothing out of line. No surprises. Just like I want it.
My earpiece crackles with static, then Wilfred's nervous voice cuts through.
"Uh, Mr. Rooke? We've got a situation at the back entrance."
I suppress a sigh. Wilfred's been on the team for three weeks, and everything's still a "situation" to him. It could be anything from a lost delivery driver to an actual murderer on a rampage with a knife between his teeth. With rookies, you never know.
I catch Elsebeth's eye across the room and give her a subtle hand signal. She nods once, her sharp elven features already shifting into high alert mode. In the two years she's been my second-in-command, we've developed the kind of wordless communication that proves to be more efficient than the constant babble most people prefer. She'll maintain primary surveillance while I deal with whatever's rattling Wilfred.
The transition from the polished marble and brass fixtures of the ballroom to the utilitarian concrete and steel of the servicecorridors feels like stepping between worlds. The sounds change too, the muffled political conversations replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of kitchen equipment.
I move quietly despite my size, a skill that's saved my life more than once. Most people expect to hear an ogre coming from three blocks away. I've made it a point to be the exception to the rule.
I find Wilfred at the back entrance, his massive orc frame blocking the doorway while he argues with someone I can't see yet. His shoulders are tense, and there are sweat stains on the armpits of his black t-shirt despite the cool morning air.
"Sir, you're not on the list," Wilfred says, his voice pitched higher than usual. "This is a private event."
"And I'm press," comes the reply in a fast-talking, nasal tone. "I've got credentials. Check 'em."
I step into view, and the source of Wilfred's distress becomes clear. A gnome in a puffy vest and cargo pants stands on the concrete loading dock, camera equipment hanging from every available surface. Press lanyard around his neck, phone gimbal in one hand, and the kind of bold arrogance that screams tabloid stringer.
Fuck. I hate those vultures.
"Problem?" I ask Wilfred, though my eyes never leave the gnome.
