He said it like a joke, but the casual affection made her stomach twist, and her champagne threatened a reappearance. He followed her a few steps toward a quieter alcove near the windows, away from the bar and the hum of donors.
“Norah.” He smiled down at her, that familiar, fond expression he’d used on her for years. “You should be circulating. This is your chance to meet half the donor list the rest of the firm would kill to get in front of.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Something in her tone must have reached him, because the smile eased, narrowed, became more assessing.
“All right,” he said quietly. “What’s on your mind?”
A dozen ways to start crowded her throat. She chose the bluntest.
“Harrington is dead,” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down.
The words landed between them like a dropped glass.
For a heartbeat, his eyes actually closed. When they opened, they were softer, heavy with something that might have been grief if she hadn’t just watched him stand in that room and not flinch.
“Yes,” he said. “He made a series of very poor decisions, and they caught up with him.”
“Poor decisions?” Norah’s voice sharpened despite her efforts. “He was executed, Richard. In front of us. Like he was nothing.”
A beat of silence. Hale’s jaw flexed once before he smoothed it away.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t want anyone overhearing that particular word.” His mask slipped. Not much—just enough for her to see the man underneath. Calculating.
“Norah,” he said, voice low, “what happened earlier was… regrettable. But Trip compromised the operation. He left trails that should never have existed. You of all people understand the danger of that. If the wrong eyes had seen what you saw?—”
“They did,” she said. “I saw it.”
His gaze sharpened. “And you’re still here. Breathing. Drinking champagne if you’d like. Because I vouched for you. I made it clear you were an asset worth protecting.”
“That’s what this is to you?” Her chest hurt. “Cost-benefit? He messed up so he dies. I can hide things better, so I live?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he said gently. “This is not the first time you’ve seen consequences play out in the real world. You’ve flagged fraud cases where people lost their homes, their retirements, their livelihoods. You know how cause and effect works.”
“This wasn’t a foreclosure notice,” she whispered. “This was a bullet to the head.”
His eyes held hers. “Yes. Because he was playing in a league where that is the currency.”
A chill ran through her. “What league is that, exactly? And what does that make us?”
He sighed, the sound weighted with disappointment, like a teacher whose favorite student gave a wrong answer on an easy test.
“We are advisors in a very complex world,” he said. “Sidarov and—” He didn’t use the word Syndicate but the shape of it hung unsaid between them. “—the people with real power... they are not going to stop existing because we wish they would. They are not going to stop funding candidates because we clutch our pearls and talk about ethics. They will simply find someone less qualified, less thoughtful, less principled than you and me to help them.”
“Is that what we are?” she asked in disbelief. “Principled?”
Hale’s mouth tightened. “I am. Are you?”
He had to be joking.
He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice. “I brought you into this because you see more clearly than anyone else I’ve ever worked with. You see the currents, the vulnerabilities, the ways money is used to tilt the board. I thought you, of all people, would understand that if those forces are inevitable, the only ethical choice is to steer them toward outcomes that cause the least harm.”
“Least harm,” she echoed. “Harrington’s family might disagree.”
“Trip made choices,” he said, patience thinning. “He got careless. You did not. You found his mistakes. That’s why you’re still standing in this room.”
“I’m standing in this room,” Norah said, “because a woman who ordered a president’s death decided I might be useful.”
