Knox's hand stays on me. My back against his chest. His heartbeat against my spine.
Nash and Ruby are still at the far end, recording it all. Frankie and Arden hold invisible lines. Amelia and Felix wait at the service exit. Anna breathes through her teeth, Tobias's hand ather arm. Victor and Olivia hold their cover on the floor, relaxed and seamless. Malachi and Candace sit three tables from my father, in the same room as the man who tried to sell his own daughter, their faces perfectly composed.
East's voice crackles through the earpiece one more time. "For the record, I want to kill the chandelier."
"Get in line," Candace whispers almost inaudibly.
The bids climb. The applause rises.
I hold my palms flat against the glass, steady now, eyes on my father through a one-way mirror, and I wait.
Chapter 48
Knox
TheBlackwellchangeswhenthe screens light up.
One second the projection system behind the stage is dark, cycling through the event's logo in soft gold. The next, it fills. Names. Photos. Payment records. A scrolling ledger displayed forty feet wide across the ballroom wall, every transaction this building has ever processed laid bare in white text on black.
Through the observation glass, I watch it land.
The room doesn't understand at first. Heads tilt. Champagne glasses pause. A few people squint at the screen the way you'd squint at a typo on a menu.
The first name registers.
A man at table four looks up, reads his own name beside a six-figure payment and a photograph of a girl, and goes white. He stands too fast, chair scraping back. He grabs his wife's arm and pulls.
A woman on the far side of the room reaches for her phone, reads the screen, reads her phone, and screams. High andfurious. "What the fuck is this?" Her date is gone. His chair sits empty, napkin folded on the plate.
Heads bend over glowing screens. Voices spike. Glass shatters against marble. Someone bolts for the main exit and collides with a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes that explodes across the floor.
The ballroom understands now. Every buyer in this room is watching their name, their payments, their participation scroll past in forty-foot letters above a stage where women were sold.
Sloane's spine goes rigid against my chest.
My hand is already at her hip, already pulling her closer, already shifting her a half step behind my shoulder. The weight of the Glock at my waistband digs into my spine. Everyone in this corridor is carrying. That was the deal before we boarded the jet. The earpiece crackles with the team's breathing, floor and corridor linked on the same channel.
"Eyes on me," I murmur into her hair.
"I'm here."
Phoenix's voice comes through level. "Let them run. Doors are sealed. They'll circle back."
Ruby's voice is low and clipped from the far end of the corridor. "Screens are live. Starting external upload now. Multiple drops. Redundancy in place."
Nash leans forward in his chair beside her. "How long until it's mirrored?"
"Three minutes. Every news desk, every server. Once it's out, it's out." Her fingers fly across the tablet. "Insurance."
Anna's breath catches beside Tobias. Her hand grips his forearm. He moves between her and the glass, his body a barrier, angled so she can see. "They're seeing their names," Anna whispers.
Nash tracks movement on the floor. "Security's moving."
Arden answers from his corner, eyes on his device. "They're trying to reroute cameras. They'll hit the loop and chase their own tails."
Frankie passes through the corridor behind us, heading back from the stairwell. She catches Arden's eye and nods once.
"Talk to me," I murmur to Sloane.
