Chapter 11 Paul The Blue Room
ELEVEN
Paul: The Blue Room
Two weeks later, I stand across the street from the St. Regis, one of New York's most prestigious hotels.
The sun is just beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the city.
Under normal circumstances, I would appreciate the beauty of the moment, but right now, all my attention is focused on the sleek black limousine pulling up to the hotel's entrance.
My pulse quickens, hammering against my ribs. The chauffeur emerges, crisp and professional in his uniform. The front passenger door swings open.
Marcus Aberdine, Faulks's bodyguard, unfolds his imposing frame from the seat. His chiseled face turns, eyes scanning the surroundings. I shrink back, melting into the crowd of onlookers. Just another face.
Marcus's gaze sweeps over and through me, seeing everything and nothing. His hand hovers near his hip—the telltale sign of a concealed weapon. Ex-military, highly trained, fiercely loyal to the Faulks family. A formidable obstacle.
The chauffeur opens the rear door. Prescott emerges first. His tailored suit screams new money. His hand extends back into the car, an outwardly gentlemanly gesture.
Vivianne's delicate fingers appear, clasping his. She emerges from the limo, a vision in ivory silk. Her golden hair cascades down her back, catching the light like spun sunshine, but it's her eyes that capture me—those deep blue pools that have haunted my dreams for weeks.
My trained eye picks up on the details others might miss. Tension in her shoulders. Tightness around her eyes. The almost imperceptible flinch when Prescott places a hand on her back.
His touch is possessive, his smile never quite reaching his eyes as he guides her onto the sidewalk.
Mr. Faulks emerges from the limousine, every inch the powerful businessman. His expensive suit and perfectly coiffed hair exude an air of authority that bends the world around him. Cold calculation glimmers in his eyes as he surveys the gathered press.
I hunch my shoulders, angling my face away from their line of sight. Just another nameless spectator, unremarkable and forgettable. But my gaze never leaves Vivianne, drinking in every detail, cataloging every subtle shift in her expression.
This tableau before me—the doting fiancé, the dutiful daughter, the protective father—is all a carefully crafted illusion.
Vivianne's gaze darts nervously across the crowd, searching. Looking for an escape, perhaps? Her gaze sweeps past me, then immediately snaps back.
Our eyes lock.
The world falls away.
Electricity crackles between us, as potent as the day we met. The slight furrow of her brow. The way her fingers twist the fabric of her dress. The rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Her lips part in a silent gasp, and she sways. Prescott's arm shoots out, steadying her.
"Are you alright, darling?" Saccharine concern laces his words.
"I'm fine." She blinks rapidly, tearing her gaze from mine. "Just a bit lightheaded."
But the tremor in her hands, the flush creeping up her neck—she felt that jolt of recognition, that surge of desire.
The promise of possibility.
They make their way into the hotel, Marcus clearing a path through the throngs of reporters and photographers. Prescott guides her, never once removing his hand from her body. Her father walks ahead, leading.
Vivianne's gaze finds mine once more. A fleeting glance, heavy with unspoken words. Then she's gone, swallowed by the revolving doors, leaving me breathless in her wake.
The St. Regis is a monument to luxury, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Security is tight, but nothing I can't handle. I've spent the last two weeks memorizing the layout, the staff rotations, every possible entry and exit point.
She's not safe. Not with them. Every instinct screams at me to grab her and run. But I can't. Not yet. I need to be smart about this.
I slip away from the crowd, ducking into a narrow alley behind the St. Regis. The acrid stench of garbage mingles with the sweet rot of discarded food. A cat yowls, darting between overflowing dumpsters. My eyes adjust to the dim light, scanning for my target.
There—the service entrance. A cigarette dangles from the lips of a bored-looking security guard. I check my watch. Any second now...
A crash echoes from further down the alley. The guard's head snaps up, his hand moving to his radio. He hesitates, then heads toward the sound.
Merlin's timing is impeccable. Right on cue.
I slip through the door, the rush of cool air carrying the scent of bleach and freshly laundered linens. Voices echo from around the corner. I duck into a supply closet.
Uniforms hang in neat rows. I strip quickly, the rough fabric of the borrowed clothes scratching against my skin. The bow tie gives me trouble—it's been a while since I've tied one of these. Finally, it sits straight. I clip on a name tag that says "James."
I emerge, straightening my cuffs. A harried-looking woman rushes past, barking into a headset.
"We need more champagne in the Astor Ballroom, now."
Perfect.
I grab an empty tray and stride purposefully toward the kitchen. The cacophony slams into me—pots clanging, knives chopping, orders being shouted in a mix of English and rapid-fire Spanish. Steam billows from massive pots, carrying the rich aroma of simmering sauces.
"You. New guy." A red-faced chef points at me. "Take these canapés up. And don't drop them, or it's your ass."
I nod, loading my tray. The elevator ride gives me a moment to steady my nerves. The doors open, and I step into another world.
The Astor Ballroom glitters with wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbows across marble floors. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of cultivated voices. I weave through the crowd.
There's the mayor, laughing too loudly at his own joke.
A cluster of Wall Street types, greed oozing from their pores.
To the side, a trio of impeccably dressed older women—socialites, their faces frozen in forced smiles, exchanging whispered judgments behind jeweled fingers, dissecting each other's outfits and scandals like it's a sport.
The ballroom is a sea of glittering dresses and dark suits. The cream of New York society gathered to witness the joining of two powerful families.
The moment I spot Vivianne, my chest tightens. That unmistakable cascade of golden hair, pinned up in intricate waves, glows under the chandeliers like a beacon meant to ruin me. I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to stay calm.
I pivot, steering myself in the opposite direction. My path leads straight to Dr. Phillips, who's engaged in an animated conversation with another guest. I need to get a message to Vivianne, and he's my way in.
I approach with my tray. "Canapé, sir?"
Dr. Phillips turns, his hand outstretched. His fingers freeze mid-air, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and spice—mingles with the aroma of the delicate pastries on my tray.
He recovers swiftly, plucking a canapé from the tray. "Ah, yes. Thank you."
As he brings the morsel to his lips, I lean in, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Tell Vivianne to meet me in the Blue Room. Ten minutes." The words are barely a whisper.
A champagne flute clinks nearby.
"Mmm, exquisite." He announces it to his companions. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, the brushwork..." He coughs, covering any reaction, then pops the canapé into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
I step back, melting into the crowd. The weight of the tray, the press of bodies around me, the constant hum of conversation—it all fades as I track Dr. Phillips from the corner of my eye.
He gesticulates wildly, drawing his audience closer to examine some detail of the painting.
Then, with practiced ease, he extricates himself.
"If you'll excuse me, I see someone I simply must greet."
He weaves through the crowd toward Vivianne. I busy myself with offering hors d'oeuvres, every nerve on high alert. Dr. Phillips reaches her, clapping Prescott on the shoulder with feigned joviality.
"Prescott! I was telling someone about that marvelous Picasso you acquired. You must come meet them."
As Prescott preens, Dr. Phillips leans close to Vivianne. His lips move, forming words I can't hear over the orchestra's swelling crescendo. Vivianne's spine stiffens, a near-imperceptible reaction, but her face remains a mask of calm, a practiced smile never wavering.
"Oh, Dr. Phillips, you do go on." Her laugh is crystal bells over the din of the party.
Satisfied, I make my way to the edge of the room.
The crowd thins here, the air cooler away from the press of bodies.
A service door, innocuous in its plainness, beckons.
One final glance over my shoulder—no one's watching.
The door handle is cool under my palm as I slip into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
The sounds of the gala fade, replaced by the low hum of air conditioning and the distant clatter of dishes. I lean against the wall.
Now, to wait. And hope.
I push off from the wall, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as I make my way to the Blue Room. The plush carpet muffles my steps, a stark contrast to the cold concrete of that warehouse floor. My side twinges—a phantom pain from the bullet wound, long since healed but never forgotten.
The Blue Room door looms before me, its ornate handle cool beneath my fingers. I slip inside. The room lives up to its name—sapphire wallpaper, midnight blue drapes, cerulean accents on the furniture.
Elegant and refined.
My mind floods with images of Vivianne. Strapped to that chair, water drowning her.
The panic in her eyes, the desperation in her movements.
The way she clung to me when I pulled her free, her body shaking with cold and fear.
The relief that washed over me, knowing she was safe, only to have it shattered by the crack of a gunshot.
I pace the room, unable to stay still. My fingers trace the scar on my abdomen, a permanent reminder of Nicholas's betrayal.
My brother.
My enemy.
The ache of his presumed death mingles with the relief that he can no longer hurt us. The staccato of gunfire, his body falling into darkness—it plays on repeat in my mind.
Urakov's men were thorough.
Efficient.
Cold.
But necessary.
He protected me and Vivianne.
I check my watch. Two minutes until Vivianne is due to arrive. Will she come? Does she still feel what I feel? Or has the time apart and the pressure from her family changed things?
The soft ticking of an antique clock on the mantle counts down the seconds. I adjust my borrowed uniform and smooth back my hair. A crystal decanter catches my eye—whiskey, probably older than I am. The temptation to pour a steadying drink is strong, but I need a clear head.
One minute.
I move to the window, peering at the glittering New York skyline. Somewhere out there, Merlin is watching, waiting. My adoptive father, my mentor, the man who shaped me into who I am. Does he approve of this plan? Or does he see it as another reckless move, driven by emotion rather than logic?
The door handle turns.
I spin, my breath catching in my throat. This is it. After months apart, after all we've been through—Vivianne is here.