Her heart clenched.
Option three gone.
A shaky exhale escaped her.
She tried to imagine going to Morris instead. Senator Morris, smiling warmly from the podium as she spoke about justice and hope. Morris, who had looked at Marshall like she knew exactlywho he was. Morris, who had nodded calmly just before Sidarov pulled the trigger.
Norah felt cold all over.
Going to Morris would be like stepping willingly into a snake pit. If she cried, if she slipped, if she confessed even a fragment of doubt, Morris would have Sidarov snuff her out with the same ease she’d dismissed Trip.
Option four gone.
That left only one.
She could confront Hale.
The idea rose slowly, unwelcome, but persistent. Her fingers tightened on the railing until her knuckles blanched. It was reckless. It was naïve. It was every instinct she’d spent years training herselfoutof. But the alternative—doing nothing—felt like letting the ground crumble beneath her feet.
Hale wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t some faceless Syndicate operative. He was the man who’d written her recommendation letters, who’d walked her through her first client disaster, who’d lectured her about integrity until she’d practically memorized his phrasing. He cared about appearances, about ethics, about the rules. Heusedto, at least. Maybe...maybe he still did, somewhere under whatever tonight had turned him into.
Maybe if she could reachthatversion of him—the one who believed in doing the right thing, or at least the orderly thing—she could reason with him. Explain that she wanted no part in this. That she wasn’t a threat. Then she could leave, quietly, disappear from the project, pretend she never saw Trip’s body hit the floor. If she said the right things in the right tone, maybe he’d hear the girl he mentored instead of the variable he needed to manage.
It was probably pathetic, clinging to the hope that the man she’d admired might still exist beneath the polished crueltyshe’d seen tonight. But hope, thin and fragile as it was, felt like the only piece she still had to play.
It was a terrible idea. But it was the only idea she had.
Every other option spiraled back into danger. Law enforcement could be corrupted or compromised, escape would be impossible under Sidarov’s scrutiny, confiding in Morris laughable, seeking out Marshall unthinkable after she’d driven him out with her own hands. She was trapped in a gilded cage, surrounded by people who smiled while sentencing men to die, and suddenly every piece on the board had moved—except her. Norah Winslow, the careful one, the observant one, had stumbled straight into check. And standing alone in the shadows, she knew, with horrifying clarity, if she didn’t choose her next move perfectly, she wouldn’t just lose the game.
She’d be collateral damage.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. Below her, the ballroom gleamed with wealth and danger, and every last person in it felt like a threat.
She couldn’t trust Hale. She couldn’t trust Summit. She couldn’t trust any of them.
Her voice, when it finally slipped out in a broken whisper, wasn’t brave or strategic—it was terrified.
“Except Marshall,” she breathed. “And I sent him away.”
Her vision blurred for a moment, then cleared with something sharper. Colder.
She straightened slowly, letting her fingers loosen from the railing. Her legs still felt shaky, but her spine held.
Norah turned back toward the ballroom lights, pulling her expression into something calm, composed, obedient. The face Hale expected. The face she needed him to see.
Before she let him decide who she was in all of this...she would decide for him.
And then she stepped away from the balcony, down the stairs, heading back toward the monster she once believed was her mentor.
CHAPTER 25
MARSHALL
Marshall reachedinto the cup holder, picked up the discarded earpiece, and rolled it between his fingers. He wasn’t ready to put it back in yet.
All he knew was that the woman he loved was inside a building full of people who thought threats were an acceptable negotiation tactic—and he was out here on a highway feeling sorry for himself. That ended now.
He slid the comm back into his ear. Static, then Stephen’s voice burst through, half-panicked. “Marshall? Finally. You ghosted me, you jerk. What’s your status? I just lost your tracker and?—”
