His smile doesn’t change. But something behind his eyes does.
“I’ll find you,” he says. Quiet. Just for me. “This isn’t over, Dylan.”
Not a promise. A fact.
Then Morrison is grabbing at him again, making a scene, and Marcus has to turn. Has to deal with the drunk man whose voice is carrying into the ballroom.
Alaina’s hand is firm on my arm.
“Walk,” she says quietly. “Don’t run.”
I walk. My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
Patricia on my other side. Maria ahead, clearing a path.
“What did I do?” My voice comes out wrong. Thin. Terrified. “The transition documents—I reviewed everything twice. I don’t understand what?—”
“Keep moving, Ms. Wells.” Maria’s voice is brisk. “DA Foxglove doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
She doesn’t answer my question.
None of them answer my question.
We pass the elevator Marcus wanted to take me to. The one that goes to the 19th floor. Private dining rooms. No cameras.
My body starts shaking and I can’t make it stop.
Is this real? Is there actually an ethics investigation? Did I do something wrong?
Or is this a rescue dressed up as procedure?
I can’t tell. Can’t read their faces. They’re too good at this—years of political masks hiding whatever they’re actually thinking.
Which means if Marcus is watching, he can’t tell either.
Service corridor. The transition from marble to industrial concrete feels like crossing a border. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The smell of commercial kitchen grease and bleach.
“How much further?” My voice cracks.
“Thirty seconds.” Patricia checks her watch. “There’s a car waiting.”
A car. To take me to the DA’s office. At 10 PM. For a confidential investigation.
Or a car to take me somewhere else entirely.
I don’t know which possibility scares me more.
My hip throbs where Marcus’s fingers dug in. I’ll have bruises tomorrow. Five purple ovals marking where he held me.
If there is a tomorrow.
A door opens somewhere behind us.
We all freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy. Male.
Maria’s hand goes to her clutch. The gesture is automatic. Protective.
