Her chest twisted.
“He’s dangerous,” Hale added gently. “I’m sorry you didn’t see that sooner.”
Norah swallowed hard and said nothing.
At the end of the hallway, Hale swiped a badge at an unmarked door. A green light blinked, and the lock disengaged with a soft click. He opened it and gestured for her to step through.
Norah went.
The room on the other side didn’t match any part of the hotel she’d seen tonight.
It was quieter. Colder. A private salon dressed in understated wealth—dark paneled walls, muted art, a long conference tableflanked by leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city spread out in glittering lines, but thick sheer curtains softened the view, turning it into something distant and unreal.
Senator Katrina Morris stood near the windows, a glass of champagne in her hand, head bent toward another woman. Norah recognized Morris’s profile immediately, but the woman beside her was a stranger.
She was...not what Norah expected. But she knew instantly who the woman was. Marshall’s description of the woman lacked a photo, but her presence was unmistakable.
Based on his description, she’d half-expected some villainous theatrics. Instead, she exuded quiet, contained power.
The woman wore a simple black dress that could’ve been mourning or couture, a string of pearls at her throat, dusty blonde hair swept back from a pale, angular face. The lines at the corners of her eyes were etched, but not by laughter. Her posture was effortless, but it was the kind of effortlessness that only came from knowing the room belonged to you.
She turned as Hale and Norah entered, and her gaze landed on Norah with unhurried curiosity. Like she was studying a new piece for her collection.
“Richard,” Senator Morris said, her smile widening. “There you are. Norah, lovely to see you again.”
Norah’s hand felt numb around her clutch. “Senator,” she said, somehow finding her voice. “I—thank you for the invitation.”
Morris crossed the room with practiced grace, taking Norah’s free hand between both of hers. “Please. Katrina,” she corrected. “We’re far beyond titles in a room like this. After all, you’re about to be a much bigger part of where we’re headed.”
Norah’s stomach dipped. “I...I was inspired by your speech,” she admitted.
Hale stepped up next to her. “Norah here is the reason we caught the initial irregularities on NorthBridge. Before they became a much bigger problem.”
“Mm.” The low sound came from the intense woman by the window.
Norah’s attention snapped to her.
Up close, her eyes were even sharper. Not cold, exactly. Cold she could’ve handled. This was something worse. Intelligent. Assessing. Like she was constantly running simulations in her head, calculating which version of the future suited her best.
Morris stepped aside, making a small, deferential gesture. “Norah, allow me to introduce Ksenia Sidarov. She’s been instrumental in helping us understand the broader landscape.”
Instrumental. Broader landscape.
Marshall’s voice echoed in Norah’s mind.
We think Saltykova is Ksenia Sidarov. She’s a Russian oligarch widow with a grudge. And she is beyond ruthless.
Sidarov extended a hand. “Ms. Winslow,” she said. Her accent barely touched the edges of her words, but it was clearly Eastern European, polished by years of international rooms. “It is a pleasure at last. Richard has spoken highly of you.”
Norah’s fingers were cold as she took the offered hand. Sidarov’s grip was cool.
“Thank you,” Norah managed. “I . . . appreciate the opportunity to be here.”
Sidarov’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Opportunity is everything, yes? In politics. In finance. In survival.”
Morris laughed softly. “Don’t let her intimidate you, Norah. Ksenia frightens world leaders, not analysts.”
Sidarov’s gaze never left Norah’s face. “We will see,” she said, something like amusement glinting in her eyes. “Sometimes the analysts are the most dangerous people in the room.”
