Chapter 37 Brady
brADY
The kitchen is hot, noisy, and jammed with too many bodies moving in too little space.
Steam from warmers fogs the air, and the clang of pans competes with orders being shouted by a small woman I’ve silently dubbed the party planner tyrant.
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck beneath the stiff collar of the catering jacket.
I grab a fresh tray from the warmer—crab tartlets arranged in neat rows—and turn just in time to get blocked in by two young catering women.
The taller one gives me a slow once-over, like I’ve been added to the dessert table. “You must be new.” She licks her lips in what I assume is supposed to be a sexy way. “Because I definitely wouldn’t forget you.”
“Just helping out tonight,” I offer. “Covering a shift.”
The shorter one giggles, eyes darting up and down me. “Well, damn. They should’ve called you in sooner.”
I curve my lips slightly, already angling toward the door. “Guess I’m making a good impression.”
“You single?” the tall one presses, stepping closer.
I lift the tray between us. “Nope.” I slide past, using my shoulder just enough to make space. They don’t follow, thankfully.
I shove the swinging door open with my elbow and walk into the ballroom. The difference between the two rooms couldn’t be more pronounced. Despite the soft music and low chandelier light, I am on alert. The air is cooler out here, but it doesn’t ease the heat simmering under my skin.
My eyes sweep the space automatically. One main exit at the front.
Two service hallways at the rear that cut back to the kitchen—one behind me, one near the loading dock where our van is covering the outside.
A poorly marked fire exit by the stairwell—either intentional or some hotel negligence.
Probably both. And a hallway on the east wall that leads back to the bathrooms with a connecting hallway to the hotel lobby.
I spot at least five private security contractors in the crowd. They aren’t blending. Wires visible, posture stiff, eyes sweeping at set intervals. Their job isn’t to protect—it’s to be seen.
As a warning, it’s not bad and could be effective for crowd control, reminding people not to cause trouble. That is until someone wants to cause real trouble.
I adjust my grip on the tray and start a slow circuit through the crowd.
“Elizabeth Gowan, meet Seth Wyland. He is one of the sponsors for my charity match.”
The words sound through my earpiece. I don’t slow my steps through the crowd, but every muscle twitches. My eyes lock on them near the mirrored bar—Ray on one side, Elizabeth between him and Seth.
She looks gorgeous. Composed. But I know her. Her spine is too straight, and her chin tips a fraction too high.
The crowd shifts, and I lose my sightline. My chest tightens. I move the tray to my other hand, angle left, trying to keep her in view.
“What are these?” A couple steps into my path, eyeing the tray.
Fuck.
“Crab tartlets,” I say, repeating what the frazzled woman in the kitchen had told me.
They hover, fingers tapping at their napkins like they’re making life-and-death decisions over appetizers. The seconds drag, and I’m one breath from shoving the entire tray into their hands.
And then I hear it through the comms. Seth is dropping Natalya Carrow’s name—using her torture and murder as a weapon. A threat aimed straight at Elizabeth.
My blood spikes. Rage floods so hot it’s like a switch being thrown.
“I might take a few,” the man says, reaching to stack more on his napkin.
My jaw locks. The man’s gaze takes in my expression, and his eyes widen before sliding two tartlets back onto the tray. “Okay, I’ll just take one.” His wife titters nervously, and they scurry off.
Yeah. My rage is showing.
Rhodes’s warning to me earlier tonight was correct—I’m too close to this. But there’s no world where Elizabeth goes into danger without me.
Ray’s laugh cuts across the comm, snapping me back. I realize I missed the last part of their conversation.
Unacceptable.
“Oops,” Ray says. “Sometimes I forget my own strength.”
I’m not sure what he did, but it makes me smile.
Then I hear it. Ray again, lower, “You went pale there for a minute.”
My stomach turns to stone and my chest cracks open.
She shouldn’t be here. None of this is worth it. I should be the one carrying the risk. Not her.
I should’ve just hunted down every suspected Lapidarist and ended it. The world would be a better place without them anyway.
My jaw grinds as I glimpse her back, moving with Ray toward the side hallway. Every instinct tells me to shadow her, but there’s no plausible reason a server should follow a guest to the restrooms. Ray’s planted right outside the door.
Then I hear her. “I’m fine.” I fucking hate it. She’s petrified and doesn’t want to show it.
I control my breathing. She’s just in the bathroom, I remind myself. We’ve got cameras on the hotel entrances, Ray has eyes on the door, and she has two trackers. They can’t get to her.
The comms crackle, and all I hear is her breathing. Too fast, harsh, and ragged, like she’s running. But I know she’s not. She’s sitting in a bathroom stall all alone, trying to hold herself together and failing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
It guts me. Every panicked sound coming through is a knife to the chest.
She’s seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.
My instinct is to cut the comms, push into that bathroom, and hold her until it stops, and then get her the hell out of this place.
Remind her she’s not alone. But I know that if I give her any softness now, she’ll shatter.
She’s too close to the edge. And my team is listening. She’d kill me for that.
I ignore the raw need in my chest and do the only thing I can. Give her something to fight.
“You done hiding in the bathroom yet?” My voice comes out smooth, almost amused. I pile on the cocky tone because if I let the pain leak through, she’ll hear it.
A beat of silence. Then she mutters, “I’m not hiding.”
Good. She’s already defensive. That’s better than scared.
“Oh sorry, my mistake. Just casually panic-sitting in a stall for the ambiance. Is that a thing?” I shove the cheer into my voice even though it feels like glass in my throat.
Her breath hitches. “You are so annoying.”
Relief cuts through me. Anger I can work with. Anger keeps her from collapsing.
“I’ve heard that before,” I tell her, letting a grin carry in my voice. “But I’m also exceptionally helpful.” Pain ricochets behind my sternum, but I push through, giving her the only support I can right now.
“Look—this is just a party. You’ve been in rooms with network executives, studio lawyers, billionaires with NDAs the size of phone books. You can handle one greasy crypto guy and a Cruella de Ville wannabe.”
I listen close. Her breathing evens just slightly. She huffs something like a laugh.
That’s my baby. Stay with me.
“That might make me feel better,” she whispers, voice frayed, “if I didn’t know she makes Cruella look like a model volunteer for the humane society. I don’t think I can do this.”
My gut twists, at the broken tone in her voice but I don’t let it show.
If I cave, she caves.
“Just breathe. You’re doing great.” I keep my tone steady, confident.
She snaps back, frustrated. “Easy for you to say. Can you at least acknowledge this is hard for me?”
I grit my teeth. Every cell in me wants to tell her I know, that I’d burn this entire ballroom down to get her out. But that would break her. So, I scoff, and give her what she needs instead. A target.
“You’ve got this. Pretend she’s one of your actors upset with you because there were brown M laughter hums across polished floors.
But she’s gone.
So are Seth Wyland and Anna Lindquist.
I scan every face, every shadow, every dress. My eyes rake corners, exits, blind spots. Nothing.
My stomach turns into ice. My hands clench into fists.
Elizabeth is gone.
I was too late.
Again.