But her thoughts kept fracturing.
Hale knew. Of course he knew. He’d been calm. Too calm, strategic even. He was part of it. Part of Sidarov and Morris’s plans. Part of the Syndicate, if Marshall was, in fact, correct.
She was already in too deep. She’d seen too much. Knew too much and had asked too many questions. She couldn’t run. They’d know. They noticed everything. They recorded everything. There were cameras. Sidarov had eyes everywhere.
And then, the last thought quieter but far more devastating—she had told Marshall to leave.
The memory hit like a physical blow. She relived his expression when she’d said it, the pain he hadn’t even tried to hide. She had pushed away the only person in the building who actually wanted her safe. The only one who wasn’t lying to her.
Her lungs tightened further.
She murmured an excuse to a passing donor and slipped through a side door up carpeted steps that led to a small upper balcony overlooking the ballroom. She gripped the railing with both hands, grounding herself against the dizzying spin of her thoughts.
Her breath came too shallow, her pulse thudding high in her throat. She was standing in a room full of monsters and pretending she belonged there. And worse—worse than anything—she had sent away the only person who saw the danger for what it was.
She kept replaying it, like her mind was determined to punish her. Trip collapsing, Sidarov’s calm, Hale’s utter lack of surprise. The fabric of Morris’s dress slacks brushing past the dead man’s shoes. Norah’s own heartbeat had roared in her ears while the rest of the room didn’t even blink.
She had spent years believing she was on the ethical side of something powerful, believing Hale’s talk of responsibility and integrity had weight. But now the truth stood in front of her like a cracked mirror. She hadn’t just misunderstood the board—she’d misread the players, the rules, the stakes.
For someone who prided herself on logic and firm data, she’d made a terrible miscalculation.
The fear was one thing—cold, rational, bone-deep. But it was the isolation that hollowed her out. She couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t even trust her own instincts, not when they’d failed her so catastrophically.
Below, the party swirled. Glittering gowns moved like currents, men in tuxedos shook hands with the careful choreography of power. Morris stood near the podium, radiating confidence as though she hadn’t just sanctioned a murder in a private suite.
Norah’s gaze tracked the room, but she didn’t truly see any of it. Her mind pulled inward, fast, spiraling through every possible move she could make.
Should she call the police? For one desperate heartbeat, she imagined slipping into a restroom, locking the door, dialing 911. A voice on the other end promising help.
But reality crashed down almost immediately.
Morris had federal connections. Hale had financial leverage. Marshall indicated that the Syndicate had judges, donors, security forces, entire networks of protection built to smother problems before they ever reached daylight.
Trip’s brazen execution had proven these people were virtually untouchable.
No one would reach her in time. And the attempt itself would mark her as a threat. A liability.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to consider the next option.
She could disappear. Tell Hale she needed air. Slip out. Run.She could play the obedient protégé, smooth her voice, keep her eyes soft. Then drift toward a staff door, walk calmly, turn a corner, find a cab, breathe for the first time in hours.
Except...Hale wasn’t fooled by her earlier attempt at composure. He’d already tested her loyalty in his office. Already questioned her nerves. Someone would follow her. Someone would report back. And disappearing after witnessing an execution was the surest way to sign her own death warrant.
Her chest tightened further.
Option two gone.
Her fingers curled tighter around the balcony railing as her mind shot to the third possibility.
Find Marshall.
Just thinking it made her throat constrict. She could call him. Text him. There was still a chance he hadn’t gone far. Maybe he was in the garage. Maybe he was?—
Her breath stuttered.
She had told him to go. She had told him he was the problem and pushed him away at the exact moment she needed him most.
And even if she tried to contact him now...what then? Hale would see. Morris would see. Sidarov would see. It would mark him. It would mark her. Choosing him now would make them both targets—and she could not risk his life to soothe her own terror.
