Chapter 17
NORAH
Norah swiped her badge at the lobby turnstile two days later and forced her breathing into something resembling rhythm. Her reflection in the elevator doors looked the way it was supposed to, with her tailored suit, neutral lipstick, and carefully straightened hair. Perfectly composed.
But the longer she stared, the less she believed it.
How could she be even remotely composed after everything that had happened this weekend?
She passed the glass-walled conference rooms, offering nods of hello and clinging to that carefully crafted composure. Someone had rifled through her apartment. Someone had taken her notebook. Someone at Summit—maybe even in this hallway—knew she was digging.
The thought made her pulse quicken, but she smoothed her jacket and kept walking.
“Morning, Norah.”
The voice came from her right. Blake was a young associate who never met a mirror or a rumor he didn’t like. He flashed a grin, leaning casually against her office doorframe. “You survived the weekend. How was the wedding? Good to go back home?”
Her mind flicked instantly to the dance floor and Marshall’s chest beneath her palms.
To the soft, shattering moment where the world had narrowed to the heat of his breath and the question in his eyes.
“It was good. But I’m always ready to come back to the city,” she said, slipping past him.
True enough. Though the city hadn’t exactly welcomed her home gently.
A flash of Saturday night hit her—the wrecked apartment, the overturned drawers, Cleo trembling under the bed.
And then another image followed, unwelcome and strangely steadying.
Marshall half-asleep on her couch this morning, one arm thrown over his chest, boots still on, looking far too large for the piece of furniture he’d clearly refused to abandon.
He’d jolted awake the moment she stepped out of her bedroom, eyes sharp, already assessing the room before they softened when they found her.
She still wasn’t sure which had rattled her more, the break-in . . . or the quiet flutter in her chest at the sight of him on her couch, early light catching on the man she’d spent years trying not to miss.
The light of dawn had softened him, stripped away the edges she’d realized he used as armor.
Mornings were . . . intimate, she supposed.
It was only natural to have all kinds of emotions stirred up by the man’s presence.
Only natural to imagine what fifteen years of mornings together would have been like.
She hated how quickly her heart recognized it. Longed for it.
But she hadn’t allowed herself to linger on the feelings. Instead, she’d awkwardly made her coffee and pretended he wasn’t watching. Then she’d gotten ready for the day and left her fully reassembled home in what felt much like an escape.
She’d gone to church Sunday morning, and when she’d returned, Marshall had an entire team of people putting her apartment back to rights.
A terrifyingly capable woman named Miranda had replaced her broken lamps and broken mirrors with identical replacements in a matter of hours.
She’d apologized profusely that a replacement for the ripped quilt would take two days, but reassured Norah that it was coming from the same tiny quilt shop in West Virginia where Norah had purchased hers.
Norah hadn’t even remembered where the quilt came from, so she wasn’t exactly sure how Miranda had figured it out.
At Norah’s obvious bewilderment, Marshall had simply whispered in her ear as he walked by, carrying new throw pillows—identical to the ones that had been sliced open. “Don’t overthink it. Miranda’s basically a magician. None of us know how she does what she does.”
Norah had the distinct feeling that Miranda was someone with a lot of tricks up her sleeve.
Blake had apparently not gotten the hint and had turned to follow her as he kept talking.
“Yeah, same. Home starts feeling like a place I used to live, not a place I still fit. Are you going to the gala on Thursday? Who am I kidding, of course you are. It’s Hale’s big initiative and everyone knows you’re his right-hand man. Well . . . woman, I suppose.”
She stopped so abruptly that Blake let out a surprised “oof” as he jerked to a halt behind her.
She turned to face him. “Hale may be my boss, my mentor, and my friend. But he does not control me.”
Blake blinked, hands lifting in surrender. “Whoa. Okay. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
She wasn’t sure why the comment hit so sharply.
Maybe because too many people did seem to think of her as Hale’s shadow.
Maybe because Hale had, in fact, pushed her into the gala without really asking.
Maybe because she was tired, shaken, and one breath away from unraveling if someone poked too close to the truth.
Or maybe because she’d spent all night trying not to need someone else’s protection, only to wake up to Marshall guarding her living room like she was the center of a battlefield.
She took a slow breath. “I know you didn’t,” she said, softer. “It’s just been a long weekend.”
“Right,” Blake nodded quickly. “Well . . . if you do go, the press list leaked this morning. Every network is covering it. Big moment.” He smiled, oblivious. “You’ll kill it, obviously.”
She didn’t feel like she’d kill anything except maybe the rising panic scratching at her ribs. She managed a tight smile, brushed past him, and made it to her office before her composure had the chance to splinter.
Her bag hit the chair. Her palms pressed against the desk, steadying herself as the weight of everything crowded in at once.
Her breath stalled high in her chest, like there wasn’t enough air in the entire office to fill her lungs.
A dull throb worked behind her ribs, not pain exactly, more like her heartbeat had decided to sprint while the rest of her body lagged behind.
She tried inhaling slowly, but the air felt thin.
Like it would never fully reach the bottom of her lungs.
Her fingers curled against the cool surface of the desk. The contact helped—barely. She focused on the pressure, letting the sensation relax her. Letting it remind her that she was here and upright and not still standing in her ruined apartment with Marshall’s voice steady in her ear.
A flicker of clarifying anger slid beneath the fear. Someone had crossed a line. Someone had decided she was worth threatening. Fine. She’d take her fear straight to the one person who needed to hear it.
She straightened her suit jacket again, smoothing the lapel like that could smooth the chaos beneath her skin, and headed for Hale’s office before she could overthink it.
She knocked once out of habit, even though Terri had already waved her through. The door latched softly behind her, and the familiar quiet of Hale’s corner office pressed in along with the faint scent of lemon polish he insisted the cleaning staff use on his desk.
Hale looked up with the easy smile of a man who had achieved a lot but was always looking at the next deal.
Behind Hale, the wall of glass overlooked the river, the morning light turning the water into a shimmer that should’ve felt calming.
Instead, it cast long reflections across the office floor — fractured lines of gold that made Norah feel like she was standing inside a spotlight she hadn’t agreed to.
“Norah,” he said warmly. “You always make the morning brighter. Sit.”
She didn’t. Not yet. She wasn’t sure she trusted her legs to move without giving something away.
“I wanted to touch base,” she said instead. “About NorthBridge. And this . . . gala I’m supposed to attend?”
“Ah.” His smile deepened, something triumphant flickering behind the genial expression.
“Yes, I was hoping you would stop by today. Quite the opportunity, don’t you think?
I’m thrilled they extended the invite to you, though I was already hoping to use my influence to do so, however limited it may be.
” His self-deprecating smile was charming as ever.
“It’s going to be a wonderful opportunity.
Everyone in DC is going to be there. Morris is already polling beautifully, and she hasn’t even formally announced anything yet. ”
Norah clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “I’m concerned,” she began carefully, “about our involvement with her campaign. Especially at this early stage.”
Hale’s brows lifted with polite surprise—the same practiced surprise he used in meetings when someone raised something he hadn’t accounted for yet. Normally it reassured her, proof of his control. Today it made her wonder if he was simply juggling too many things at once.
“Concerned?” he echoed. “Help me understand.”
She chose her next words with precision.
Not too sharp. Not too soft. “Whatever my personal political affiliations, I feel like there are still a lot of unanswered questions about the NorthBridge account. I didn’t even realize Morris was involved, but now that I do . . . It only muddies the waters.”
A pause. Not long. Just enough to warn her she’d stepped closer to a line he thought she couldn’t see.
He gave a soft, almost paternal chuckle and leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the desk like he was about to explain something to a promising but confused associate. The movement was smooth, confident—but his gaze had the faint, assessing glint of a man measuring which lever to pull next.
He folded his hands. “Norah,” he said gently, “you know I trust your instincts . . .”
There was always a but.
He continued, “I thought I told you to let the NorthBridge data settle. And it did, right? Everything comes back clear now?”
“Well,” she said carefully, “the surface-level numbers settled. But the underlying patterns—”