A second man in a black suit stepped up on my other side, boxing me in completely.
Preston has stationed four plainclothes contractors inside the ballroom.
Malcolm’s warning from the car echoed in my head. This wasn't a request. It was an extraction.
"Let go of me," I said, dropping my voice to a harsh whisper. "If Malcolm finds out you touched me—"
"Mr. Vance is currently occupied," the first man interrupted. He pulled me forward, forcing me to walk. "This way."
They didn't drag me. They walked close enough to my sides that to anyone watching, it looked like we were having a private, urgent conversation as we moved through the crowd. The gold silk of my dress brushed against their cheap suits.
My heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs.
I tried to scan the room for Grant, but the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns blurred together. We reached the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom, far away from the main entrance and the library.
The second man pushed the doors open.
They shoved me into the dark, narrow hallway. The music from the ballroom was instantly muffled as the doors clicked shut behind us.
The temperature in the corridor was freezing. There was no heating back here. It was a service hallway, designed for the catering staff to move between the kitchens and the event spaces without being seen by the guests.
"Where are you taking me?" I demanded, planting my feet on the linoleum floor.
The first man didn't answer. He just grabbed my arm again, his grip tighter this time, and pulled me down the hall.
We passed two closed doors before stopping in front of a third. The man opened it and pushed me inside.
I stumbled, my heel catching on the threshold. I threw my hands out, catching myself against the edge of a heavy wooden table before I could hit the floor.
The room was small, smelling faintly of bleach and old dust. It wasn't a conservatory. It was an old butler’s pantry, stripped of its furniture save for the table and a single folding chair. The only light came from a small, barred window near the ceiling.
I spun around just as the door shut.
The lock clicked into place.
I ran to the door, grabbing the brass handle. I pulled it. I twisted it. I threw my weight against the heavy wood.
It didn't budge.
"Hey!" I shouted, hitting the door with the flat of my hand. "Open the door!"
Silence.
I stepped back, my chest heaving. The cold air in the small room bit into the bare skin of my back. I wrapped my arms around my waist, shivering violently.
Think, Audrey. Think.
I looked around the room. There was no other exit. The window was too high and too small to climb through, even if I could break the glass. The table was bolted to the floor.
I reached into the small, hidden pocket of the gold dress. The designer had included it specifically for a lipstick or a key card.
My fingers brushed against empty silk.
My phone was in my clutch. My clutch was sitting on the bar in the main ballroom, exactly where I left it when the security contractor grabbed me.
I closed my eyes, a wave of absolute, crushing panic washing over me.
I was completely cut off. Malcolm was in the library, probably fighting for his career. Grant was at the east exit, looking for a woman who was no longer in the room. And I was locked in a closet in the back of a mansion owned by a man who wanted to destroy me.
