Her eyes found his across the ballroom. He saw the wounded anger in them for a moment, then she tore them away just as quickly, pivoting toward Hale’s waiting hand at the small of her back.
That hit harder than any punch he would inevitably take tonight.
The guards flanking him—two older contractors in badly tailored tuxedos—kept their voices low enough not to draw attention, but their irritation was obvious. “Mr. Kincaid, we can escort you out calmly, or we can make this difficult.”
Marshall didn’t look at them.
Couldn’t.
He watched Norah and Hale disappear through the archway leading toward the private corridor. Watched Hale lean down, whispering something close to her ear. Watched her shoulders stiffen—hurt, confused, turning inward in a way he recognized. Watched her nod anyway.
Watched her believe him.
A quiet, controlled exhale left him. It felt like someone had reached into his chest and closed a fist around something vital.
He’d known tonight might break bad. He’d prepared for that. He’d braced himself for Syndicate bait, for gunmen in the wings, for Hale running scared.
He hadn’t braced forherturning away from him.
Norah had made it clear that her loyalties lay with someone he knew, beyond any doubt, was a threat. She had chosen someone who would use her. He had the brief recognition that perhaps he had also been using her. After all, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to clone Hale’s phone without the access of attending this gala.
It wasn’t the same, he told himself. But the guilt settled like a small stone in the pit of his stomach.
The second she was out of sight, Marshall finally let the guards reclaim his attention.
“Sure,” he said mildly. “Let’s not make it difficult.”
They were visibly relieved. They eased their posture, still flanking him, still directing him toward the service hallway. They thought they’d won. Idiots.
He let them keep thinking that until they reached a stretch of lushly carpeted corridor with no foot traffic.
“Cameras are looped,” he heard Stephen say quietly. He’d been silent during the exchange in the ballroom, but Marshall hated knowing anyone had seen Norah betray him. “You’re clear.”
But now he was going to go get her.
“What are you doing?” one guard asked, confused as Marshall slowed.
He smiled without warmth.
The taller guard reached for his shoulder.
Bad choice.
Marshall shifted before the man’s fingers even grazed the fabric. A sharp pivot, weight on the ball of his foot, and he caught the man’s wrist, twisting hard. The guard’s breath punched out in a startled grunt as Marshall used that momentum to drag him forward and drive a knee into his ribs. The man crumpled, hitting the floor with a groan and absolutely no chance of standing anytime soon.
The second guard reacted faster. His hand went for the holster at his back, eyes flashing with the realization that this wasn’t a corporate PR problem anymore.
Marshall didn’t give him the chance.
He stepped in, knocking the man’s arm wide, striking the radial nerve in one brutal, precise hit. The guard’s hand spasmed. The gun slipped uselessly from his grip. Marshall kicked it across the carpet—hard enough that it clattered beneath a far table. Out of reach.
“Don’t,” the man hissed, reaching again.
Marshall answered with an elbow to the sternum that sent him stumbling backward. Before gravity finished the job, Marshall hooked a foot behind his ankle and swept him to the floor. The impact was loud. Definitive.
The man didn’t get up. Neither would, for at least five minutes.
Marshall stood over both bodies for one steadying second, tugged his jacket straight, and scanned the hallway.
