His eyebrow lifted.
“Voice memos. For work. I'm a writer. Freelance journalist. Wedding pieces, society columns.” I gestured vaguely. “Ideas hit at terrible moments. I record them before I forget. Was trying to capture atmosphere when I got distracted by architecture, wandered too far, ran into you. Literally.”
I pocketed it, shrugged. “Though 'gorgeous bodyguard drenched in champagne' does make decent copy. Mind if I use that?”
He studied me for a long moment. I kept my expression open, slightly sheepish.
“Right,” he said finally, though his tone suggested he wasn't convinced. “Writer.”
“Terrible one, according to my editor.” I gave him a small wave, deliberately cheeky. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, gorgeous. Try not to intimidate too many more lost journalists.”
I walked away before he could respond. Forced myself not to run, not to look back.
Behind me, I felt his gaze tracking my movement.
I madeit back to the ballroom, pulse steady, mind racing.
Harrow emerged from the side corridor three minutes later, expression neutral. He rejoined the party like he hadn't just orchestrated witness intimidation twenty feet from a royal wedding.
I tracked him for another hour. Watched who he spoke to. Memorised faces.
The man appeared near the bar around eleven, still in that ruined suit, talking to the tall man in dark red. He caught me looking once, held my gaze for two seconds longer than necessary, then turned away.
Before midnight, Harrow made his exit. I followed at distance through the palace entrance into the night where cars lined the drive. Harrow's was sixth in line. Black sedan, diplomatic plates.
I walked past like I was heading for my own vehicle, hands in pockets. The tracker in my palm was smaller than a coin.
I steadied myself against Harrow's car as I walked past. The tracker attached with a soft click, lost beneath engines and conversation.
I kept walking. Didn't look back.
The night air tasted like rain and stone and expensive champagne. Behind me, the palace glittered. Inside, people were still celebrating.
I pulled out my phone, opened the tracking app. The dot appeared, steady and red.
Three years. Three years of hunting Harrow through shadows and sealed files. Three years of being one step behind.
Tonight, I'd gotten inside his circle. Recorded his voice. Planted a tracker.
And collided with a man whose voice had crawled inside my chest and refused to leave.
I reached my car, slid behind the wheel, pulled off my mask. My reflection in the rear-view mirror looked the same as always.
My phone buzzed. Text from Bishop:
Bishop
Get what you needed?
Callahan
More than expected.
Bishop
Good. Don't do anything stupid.
I started the engine, pulled onto the road. The tracker's dot moved steadily across my phone's map. Harrow was heading east, probably toward Kensington.
I'd transcribe the recording tomorrow. Cross-reference connections. Build the file deeper. Three years of work, and I was finally close.
Just had to stay focused.
Just had to avoid distractions.
Just had to forget about midnight blue suits and the voice that made my insides liquid and the way danger looked when it wore expensive fabric.
How hard could that be?
