The first time I see him, he’s a shadow at the edge of Vincent Hale’s light.
Vincent is all soft spotlight and champagne laughter at the donor gala, standing on the stage with his sleeves rolled up, talking about hope and children and clean water. My job is to hover behind a pillar near the back doors, clutching a clipboard and pretending the tremor in my fingers is from the bad air conditioning, not from sharing a room with my hero.
Next to the stage, half in the dark, he stands.
Broad shoulders in a black suit that doesn’t quite hide prison ink curling up his neck. Hands folded in front of him, still as carved stone. Eyes sweeping the room with flat, assessing attention that never lingers, never softens. I catch the faint gleam of a scar near his temple when a flashbulb pops.
I know everyone in this ballroom—board members, donors, staff. I know their names, their preferred drink orders, their petty grievances because they all filter down to the back office eventually.
I don’t know him.
“Doyle.”
The hiss of my surname in my ear makes me jump. My pen skitters down the registration sheet, scoring an ugly line through a senator’s name.
“I—sorry.” I straighten, heat rising in my face. “Yes, Mr. Redd?”
Marcus Redd gives me his usual look, the one that manages to be both bored and irritated. His tie is a fraction of a shade off from the foundation’s navy, which will bother him all night.
“Stop gawking and check the silent auction tablets. The app froze during the last lot. If we lose bids because you’re daydreaming, I will personally make sure you spend next quarter reconciling storage receipts.”
“I’m not—” I swallow the protest. “I’ll fix it.”
He’s already turned away, smiling for one of the junior donors like he didn’t just speak to me like I’m a glitchy printer.
I move, because moving is safer. Because if I stand still too long my eyes drag back to the stage, to Vincent’s easy charisma, to the man in the shadows.
The room smells like money and perfume and anxiety under too much cologne. Crystal glasses chime. A string quartet fights with the low roar of a hundred whispered conversations. I slip along the edge of the crowd, invisible in my black dress and staff badge.
Invisible is good. Invisible is safe.
By the time I reach the auction tables, my heartbeat has mostly settled. Tech issues I can handle. People are code you can’t debug; software usually obeys.
I bend over the first tablet, fingers flying over the admin console. The app really has frozen. I force a restart and pray the Wi-Fi cooperates.
“You’re Hannah, right?”
I start again, nearly elbowing the man beside me. “Sorry—yes, I mean, yes, I am. Sorry.”
Elena Ward laughs, a quick, bright sound. She’s in a emerald dress that probably costs more than my car, her dark hair coiled into something elegant and effortless. We’re technically peers in Operations, but she lives at the front of the house. I live in the database.
“You look like you want the carpet to swallow you,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Relax. The donors are two glasses in; they couldn’t tell a freeze from a feature.”
