“Plant our people as staff,” he continues. “Both exits. Defensive positions. Treat this as a hit, not a meeting.”
I grip the phone tighter. He comes back to me.
“If you’re wrong,” he says, “we look paranoid.”
My laugh is sharp and ugly. “If I’m right,” I whisper, “you’re alive.”
A beat. “Good enough for me,” he says.
My chest cracks open. Because this is what partnership looks like in his world: a man with a gun, trusting a woman with a floor plan.
And then he says, quieter, and it hits harder than all the tactical talk: “Stay with Nico.”
My throat tightens. “I am,” I say.
“I’ll call,” he says. “When we’re in position.”
“Okay,” I whisper, even though that’s a lie. There’s nothing okay about any of this.
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone. Then I force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
I gather the papers again, smoother this time, because panic doesn’t help. I slide them back into the folder, press it flat, and open the door.
The guard straightens outside like he’s been listening for my pulse. “Is it…” he starts.
“It’s a trap,” I say, voice steady. “He knows. He’s changing the plan.”
The guard’s eyes sharpen. He nods once like he’s relieved someone named the monster.
“You really think so?” he asks, because men like certainty, too.
I meet his gaze. “I plan events,” I say. “This is an event. And it’s designed to kill him.”
I don’t wait for him to reply. I walk back toward the family wing, my body moving on instinct.
Because the next part of this is waiting.
And waiting is the part that breaks you.
