"You destroyed my LIFE, you bitch!" Tears cut tracks through her smeared makeup.
Security was already approaching. Two men in black, faces blank, moving with the smooth discretion of people trained to remove problems without causing scenes.
"Deb —" I started.
She laughed over the sound of my voice — brittle, jagged, the sound of someone holding herself together with rage because if she let go she'd collapse. "You're a vulture. I hope you get exactly what's coming to you."
Security took her arms. She fought them — weakly, sobbing — still screaming as they guided her toward the exit. The crowd watched the way crowds always watch — hungry for the spectacle, relieved it wasn't them.
Then, slowly, conversations resumed. Drinks flowed. The string quartet played on.
Like nothing had happened.
"You okay?" Dominic's voice was low, just for me.
"She's a mess." I stared at the doors Deb had disappeared through. "Not a mastermind. Not a threat. Just a mess I made."
"You didn't make her run an illegal gambling ring."
"I know."
"She broke the law. You reported it."
"I know that too." I took a breath, forcing my shoulders down. "It doesn't mean I don't feel it. Every person I expose — they're people. They have lives that fall apart. I tell myself it's journalism, it's truth, it's important. And then I watch someone cry at a party because I took everything from her, and I wonder if the truth was worth the cost."
He was quiet for a moment. "It doesn't make you a bad person. Feeling it."
"Doesn't make me a good one either."
"Didn't say it did." Palm at the small of my back again. Steady pressure. Grounding. "But the people who don't feel it — those are the ones you worry about."
I looked up at him. His eyes were serious, but there was something in them I hadn't seen before — not pity, not judgment. Understanding. Like he knew what it was like to do hard things and carry the weight of them after.
"Senator's moving toward the west gallery," he said quietly. "Gold dress is following. If you want your shot, now's the time."
Right. The job. I shoved down the guilt and the fear and the warm, dangerous feeling that touch on my back was creating, and I focused.
"Let's go."
Senator Harlan Tully was a walking cliché — silver-haired, square-jawed, wedding ring catching the light while his eyes tracked every woman under forty in the room. His wife was beautiful in a polished way — blue gown, diamonds, a smile polished by decades of performance. She stood at his elbow, hand on his arm, the picture of political partnership.
The blonde in gold was his aide. Twenty-eight, maybe. Standing just close enough to be noticed if you were looking, just far enough to be denied if you weren't. She laughed at somethingTully said, touching her collarbone, and the gesture was so intimate it might as well have been a neon sign.
I slipped away from Dominic's side and moved through the crowd toward the rose displays in the west gallery. Found the spot I'd picked — behind a massive arrangement of roses so deep red they looked black in the low light. I crouched down, hiked my skirt up so I could move if I needed to, and lifted my camera.
"You're going to get us arrested."
I didn't jump. Barely. Dominic had materialized behind me without making a sound, crouched beside me in his tux like this was a perfectly normal thing for two adults to be doing behind a flower arrangement at a party.
"Only if you keep talking," I whispered.
"You realize we're hiding behind roses at a black-tie event."
"Journalism requires sacrifice."
"This isn't journalism. This is espionage in formalwear."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
