Chapter One
Charlie
The dessert cart was my best friend tonight.
I crouched behind a tower of chocolate-dipped strawberries, camera pressed to my eye, and watched Gregory Walsh work the room like he hadn't been publicly disgraced six months ago. Black tux, silver hair slicked back, that politician's smile that never quite reached his eyes. He was schmoozing with Ray Stuckey, a developer with a reputation shadier than week-old sushi, and I wanted every second of it on film.
Chocolate Row was lit up like Christmas had crash-landed into Valentine's Day. String lights crisscrossed the cobblestone street outside, reflecting off the old warehouse windows. Inside this "private donor event," crystal chandeliers dripped light onto Cupid City's elite while they pretended Walsh's kickback scandal had never happened. Short memories. Deep pockets. My favorite combination.
I adjusted my blonde wig—the cheap one that itched like hell—and smoothed the black catering vest I'd "borrowed" from a supply closet. The key to blending in wasn't looking expensive. It was looking invisible. Servers were furniture. Nobody noticed furniture.
Walsh leaned closer to Stuckey, gesturing toward a set of architectural plans spread across a high-top table. I zoomed in. Got the handshake. Got Walsh's hand on Stuckey's shoulder—that overly familiar power move politicians loved. Got Stuckey passing Walsh what looked like a business card but could've been anything.
My finger flew across the shutter button. Click. Click. Click.
This wasn't the smoking gun that would bring Walsh down again. He'd already been brought down. This was reconnaissance. Insurance. Building a file for the inevitable moment when Cupid City's golden boy tried another comeback and I'd be ready with receipts showing he'd never really left the game.
"Excuse me."
I froze.
A security guard—barrel-chested, buzz cut, the kind who took his job way too seriously—stood three feet away, eyes narrowed. "Staff aren't supposed to be in this section."
My heart kicked into overdrive, but my face stayed bored. I'd learned that trick early. Panic got you caught. Indifference got you ignored.
"Sorry." I straightened up, lowering my camera so it hung casually at my side like every server carried a professional camera. "Guest asked me to grab her dessert from back here. Said the strawberries up front looked picked over."
He wasn't buying it. His eyes narrowed more with every word out of my mouth.
"Let me see your credentials."
Shit.
"Sure, yeah, they're in my—" I patted my vest pockets, stalling. "Must've left them in the break room. I'll go grab them right now."
I turned toward the kitchen, walking with the kind of confidence that said I absolutely belong here and you're wasting my time, but his hand caught my elbow.
"Wait here."
Double shit.
My brain ran calculations. He had sixty pounds on me, but I had the element of surprise and zero shame. Also, four years of knowing every exit in every venue in this city.
I yanked my arm free, pivoted hard, and bolted.
"Hey!"
His shout triggered exactly what I needed: chaos. Heads turned. Servers froze. A woman gasped. I ducked under a waiter's tray, weaved around a cluster of men in expensive suits, and hit the kitchen doors at full speed.
The kitchen was a hurricane of heat and noise. Chefs barking orders, pans clanging, ovens roaring. I didn't slow down. Kept moving. Through the line cooks, past the dishwashing station, straight for the delivery entrance I'd scouted two hours ago.
Cold February air slapped my face as I burst into the alley. I ripped off the wig, shoved it in my bag, and kept running. Footsteps pounded behind me—security was faster than he looked—but I knew these streets. Chocolate Row's alleys connected like a maze, and I'd mapped every shortcut.
Left at the dumpster. Right at the loading dock. Through the gap between buildings that barely fit my frame.
By the time I hit the main street, I'd lost him.
I slowed to a walk, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot. Adrenaline sang through my veins. This. This was why I did this job. Not for Morty's money—though the money was good.Not for the byline I'd never get under my real name. For this. The rush. The win. The proof that I could outsmart anyone who thought they were untouchable.
