I bolted.
My breath came in ragged bursts, every cell of me set to run-or-die. The laughter and music came back like a slap as I entered the main ballroom, and for a moment, I was just another girl in a cocktail dress, tripping on her own shoes. Nothing more, nothing less.
For a few frantic heartbeats, I didn't move at all.
I was trying to process what had just happened in the hallway.
The ballroom vibrated around me—voices rising and falling, clinking glasses, drunken laughter. I tried to blend into the crowd, but my legs were locked up and my skin felt too tight where Ronan had grabbed me earlier.
The urge to wash his touch off was so strong, my entire body pulsated.
I stood behind a group of women dissecting the scene like it was a fashion show. I counted things and breathed through my nose before grabbing a flute from the passing waiter.
Then Ronan's face appeared in the crowd again, and I felt a wave of panic washing over me again.
I turned, searched for the entrance, determined to leave. Coming here was a mistake. Geneva shouldn't have insisted.
And then something else happened. The police officers entered the room and scattered through the crowd. One of them called out Ronan's name.
I spun in the direction of where he stood with his companion. His face twisted.
Things developed too fast from here on.
The police had Ronan's wrists behind his back, pinning him like a trussed bird. They pushed him toward the exit, and the guests parted in a slow wave, some craning for photos, others hiding behind their drinks. One of the officers read charges aloud.
"Mr. Wick, you are under arrest for embezzlement, fund misappropriation, and tax evasion?—"
The words didn't make sense at first. They didn't fit the man I knew. Or maybe they fit him perfectly, just not the version that lived in my nightmares.
It hit me then. This wasn't a coincidence. This was my doing. This was the ruin I paid for.
And I actually got to witness it.
I watched his face as the charges rolled over him. I didn't know what to expect—pleasure or relief. The game was well played.
Someone touched my arm. I flinched and glanced over my shoulder.
It was Amanda, the woman from Castell Funding, her eyes wide and bright with gossip. "Did you see that?" she asked in a half whisper. "He was just—God, that was brutal." She looked closer at me. "Are you okay?"
No. Yes. I had no idea. My mouth said, "Just a little shocked they arrested him at a public event like this."
"Someone must have pulled some strings," Amanda supplied matter-of-factly.
She was gone before I could reply. I drifted to the side of the room, letting the crowd build up a buffer. I touched my chin where Ronan's fingers had left a phantom bruise. It didn't hurt anymore. The pain had migrated, all of it, to some deeper place I couldn't name.
For a minute, I just stood there, scrutinizing the last flashbulbs of the disaster fade out. And even though I didn't feel much, the world itself grew strangely peaceful, as if every problem I'd ever had had just gotten up and walked out of the room in handcuffs.
8 seven
From behind the tall ficus at the edge of the room, I watched the police lock the target's wrists in stainless steel and frog-march him through the gauntlet of phone cameras and open mouths.
I was ready to leave this place.
There was no need to stay and observe the aftermath. Even though, sometimes I found myself wanting to know what would happen next. I ignored the urge just like I ignored every other stray emotion that threatened to sabotage the job. As soon as the target was escorted out of the building, I moved.
I slipped through the kitchen doors and vanished into the service corridor. Here, the world was industrial—blue tile, fluorescent lights, Spanish speech. The air smelled like dish soap and bleach.
I peeled off the uniformed shirt as I walked, exposing the black long-sleeve underneath. The shirt went into a rolling linen hamper at the end of the hall. Someone would find it tomorrow and think nothing of it. By then, any traces of my DNA would be gone thanks to a commercial grade laundromat.
