I am free.
I walk through the entrance of the ballroom, my eyes scanning the crowd for the gold dress.
I don't see her at the bar. I don't see her near the orchestra.
A cold spike of panic hits my chest. I look toward the east exit, where Grant was supposed to be stationed.
Grant is not there.
The panic mutates into absolute terror.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, hitting Grant’s speed dial. It goes straight to voicemail.
I look around the crowded room, the noise of the orchestra sounding like a siren.
Audrey is gone.
CHAPTER 22
AUDREY
I shouldn't have let go of his hand.
The moment Malcolm walked through the heavy oak doors of the library, the temperature in the ballroom seemed to drop ten degrees. I stood near the bar, holding my glass of bourbon, keeping my spine perfectly straight and my expression completely bored as Simon approached me.
I handled Simon. I watched him retreat, his ego fractured, completely terrified of the threat Malcolm had whispered to him on the street two weeks ago. I won that interaction.
But then the music changed.
The chamber orchestra transitioned from a slow, classical piece into something louder, more chaotic. The crowd shifted, moving toward the center of the room as the waitstaff began clearing the floor for dancing.
In the movement, I lost sight of the east exit. I lost sight of Grant.
Someone bumped into my shoulder—a woman in a heavy sequined dress who didn't bother to apologize. I stumbled slightly, my stiletto catching on the edge of the thick Persian rug. I reached out to steady myself against the edge of the bar, setting my glass down.
When I turned back around, the crowd had closed in completely.
"Excuse me," I said, trying to step around a group of board members discussing real estate.
They didn't move. They didn't even acknowledge I had spoken.
I took a step to the left, aiming for the corridor that led to the library. I needed to get back to the door. I needed to be standing exactly where Malcolm left me when he came out of that meeting.
A hand clamped down on my bare arm.
The grip was hard, bruising, entirely devoid of the careful, protective pressure Malcolm uses when he touches me.
I gasped, twisting my body to pull away.
A man in a plain black suit was standing right behind me. He wasn't a guest. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He had a small earpiece curled around his right ear, and his eyes were completely dead.
"Miss Jennings," the man said, his voice low enough that it didn't carry over the music. "Preston Vance requested that you join him in the conservatory."
"Preston Vance is in a board meeting in the library," I replied, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady. I tried to pull my arm free again, but his fingers dug into my bicep.
"The meeting concluded," the man lied smoothly. "Please come with me. We don't want to make a scene."
I looked around. There were at least fifty people within screaming distance. The mayor was standing twenty feet away. But no one was looking at me. The Vance family estate operates on a very specific set of rules: if security is handling someone, you look the other way. You don't get involved.
