Chapter 19
NORAH
Norah had never liked mirrors, but the one in the ladies’ lounge was particularly cruel.
The black silk hugged every line it touched, the one-shoulder neckline leaving her collarbone bare, her necklace a thin line of light at her throat. The skirt flared just enough at her knees to move when she walked, a whisper of fabric around her ankles. Elegant. Exactly what this room expected.
Her pulse didn’t get the memo.
She smoothed her hand over the curve of her hip, more to steady herself than anything else. The updo had seemed like a good idea hours ago. It had seemed sleek and polished, and it left the nape of her neck exposed in a way that had made her feel regal before.
Now she was hyper-aware of that bare skin. Hyper-aware of the fact that when Marshall had seen her in the lobby, his gaze had caught there and stayed half a second too long.
She’d pretended not to notice. She’d be pretending all night.
A burst of laughter floated in from the ballroom, followed by the low swell of strings. Norah drew a slow breath, checked that her lipstick hadn’t migrated, and forced her shoulders back.
She could do this. Smile. Breathe. Don’t think about the man waiting for you.
All she had to do was make it through Morris’s announcement and shake a few hands.
Then she could go home. Of course, the man making her .
. . unsettled would be coming with her. He’d take up his post on her couch once more, denying her any semblance of restful sleep.
Like it had all week, her body would refuse to rest, acutely aware of him just yards away.
She stepped out of the lounge and into the soft chaos of the gala.
Lush carpet in gray and blue muted the sound.
Waiters moved like chess pieces with trays of champagne while screens cycled through patriotic imagery and carefully curated sound bites from Senator Morris’s latest interviews.
Glassware clinked, gowns rustled, and high-dollar small talk filled any gaps left by the multimedia features.
And in the middle of it all—anchoring her gaze like he always did—stood Marshall.
She found she missed the black tactical pants he’d been wearing this morning on her sofa.
Instead, in his charcoal tux, crisp white shirt, and bowtie, he somehow looked both more formal and more dangerous.
Very James Bond. The scar near his temple caught the light when he turned his head, a thin pale line against tanned skin.
He wasn’t smiling. Of course he wasn’t. His expression was neutral, watchful, the kind of calm that made people underestimate how quickly he could move if something went wrong.
He crossed the remaining distance, weaving through donors and staff with the ease of someone who’d spent years reading crowds instead of joining them.
“There you are,” he murmured when he reached her, voice low enough that it belonged only to the space between them.
“Miss me?” she teased, allowing herself to slip into this charade they were playing. If she told herself she was playing a character, perhaps her heart wouldn’t fall for the act.
“Always,” he replied immediately, his words making her stomach dip.
Or perhaps her heart was just as foolish as the rest of her.
A passing waiter offered flutes of champagne. Norah took one because that’s what this version of her did. Marshall didn’t.
“Stephen’s online,” he said quietly. “Earpiece comms are stable. I’ve done a full circuit. Security’s tight, but not paranoid.”
Of course. Operation first. Feelings . . . never.
She nodded, pretending that steadied her. “Any familiar faces?”
“Too many.” His gaze flicked past her shoulder, cataloging. “Morris’s donor liaison. Two lobbyists we flagged last year for laundering campaign funds through shell NGOs. Derulo. Collins.”
The last two names came out flatter. Marshall’s disdain of the people behind the names was obvious. To her at least.
“Anyone from Summit?” she asked.
“Besides you and Hale?” His jaw moved once. “A couple of mid-tier partners. Nobody else from your level.”
The implication was clear to her. Hale hadn’t just invited her because she was useful. He’d elevated her. Put her in a room she wasn’t expected to occupy.
The thought made her stomach twist.
He offered his arm. Professional escort. Pretend boyfriend. Human shield. She wasn’t entirely sure which part of him she was taking when she slipped her hand through.
She felt the tension in his muscles anyway.
Norah felt eyes on them. The lie she’d told Morris’s aide—the imaginary boyfriend—suddenly felt a lot less imaginary. Beside her, she knew Marshall was cataloging exits, cameras, and security details. She could practically feel him mapping the room in his head.
“Relax your shoulders,” he said under his breath, voice a rumble right against her ear. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m walking through a room where people who move markets and maybe governments talk shop over crab cakes. I think bolting would be reasonable. Let’s do that.”
His thumb brushed once, briefly, against the back of her hand where it rested on his arm. The touch was gone before she could decide if she’d imagined it.
“You’re the smartest person in here,” he said. “They should be nervous, not you.”
Her throat tightened. The words shouldn’t have mattered, but they did.
They made their way toward the preferred tables near the stage. Norah smiled when she was supposed to, answered safely vague questions about Summit’s market outlook, let her brain run two tracks at once. One for the small talk, one for the numbers she’d seen and the notebook she’d lost.
They met up with Hale again at the front of the stage. She felt Marshall’s presence a half-step behind her the whole time. Close enough that if she shifted, her shoulder would brush his. Far enough that she could almost pretend he wasn’t there.
Until the music slowed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host called, “before the Senator joins us, we invite you to the floor. This is, after all, a celebration.”
People drifted toward the center, couples forming naturally. Norah stayed rooted by her chair.
“You should dance,” Hale said lightly, already looking to intercept a passing lobbyist. “We’ll regroup before the speech.”
She didn’t miss the way his eyes cut briefly toward Marshall before he moved away.
“The man is very generous with your time,” Marshall muttered.
“I work for him,” she said. “That’s how that goes.”
For a moment they just stood there—close, awkward, surrounded by people slipping into motion.
Then Marshall said, “Dance with me.”
She startled. “What?”
“It’s just a dance.” His voice was rougher than the words. “You’ll blend in better on the floor than standing here like a target. I won’t read into it if you don’t.”
Lie, she thought.
He held out his hand.
She stared at it. At a scar on his knuckle. His hand didn’t shake at all, even with the room, the mission, the Senator, the possible assassins she kept imagining.
Then she set her fingers in his.
His palm was warm. Solid and familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.
They stepped into the crowd. The lights dimmed a fraction. The music wrapped around them, slow and steady. Marshall’s hand found her waist—cautious, then more sure when she didn’t pull away. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, the fabric of his jacket smooth under her fingertips.
He held her a respectable distance away. It was professional and appropriate.
She hated it.
They moved together easily, just as they had at the wedding. Muscle memory, she supposed. Years of high school dances and porch light sways woven into one smooth, wordless pattern.
For several measures, he didn’t look at her. His gaze tracked the perimeter, then the mezzanine. Then the doors at the far end where security shifted their weight.
“You’re counting guard rotations, aren’t you?” she asked under her breath.
“Among other things.”
“Maybe try counting beats instead. That’s what normal people do at parties.”
A corner of his mouth tugged. “You think either of us has ever been normal at a party?”
Point. She couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped.
His attention flicked to her at the sound. For the first time since they’d stepped onto the floor, his focus narrowed down to her.
Everything in her went still.
“What else are you seeing?” she asked. “Besides exits and weapons and whatever else lives in that head now.”
He hesitated. “I see you haven’t had enough water. That you’ve been holding your shoulders too tight since we walked in. That you keep glancing toward the stage like you’re waiting for someone to flip a switch you can’t see.”
Heat climbed her neck. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows your stress tells.” His thumb brushed, barely there, along the side of her hand. “Talk to me.”
“It’s loud in here,” she said, deflecting.
“I can still hear you.”
She swallowed. The music swelled. Bodies moved around them in lazy circles. She felt wrapped in a bubble—soft lighting, Marshall’s shoulder solid under her hand, the low rasp of his breathing.
“Do you still think I’m overreacting?” she asked quietly. “About NorthBridge. About Morris? About . . . all of this?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She watched his face, desperately searching for something—respect, validation, the kind of belief he used to offer without thinking.
“I think,” he said finally, “that your instincts are rarely wrong.”
It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
“But you’re still here,” she pushed. “You’re still working this. You’re still—” Using me, she didn’t say. “And you won’t tell me what you really want out of Hale.”
His eyes met hers then. Really met them. For a second, the room dropped away. No chandeliers. No donors. No Senator. Just the two of them and fifteen years of unsaid things.
“I don’t want you anywhere near these people,” he said. “Not Morris. Not Derulo. Not whoever’s pulling strings behind them. I want you out of their orbit. I want you safe and annoying accountants over misfiled expense reports somewhere far away from all this.”
Her throat went tight. That was closer. Closer to the man who’d once planned a whole messy, beautiful future with her.
“And?” she whispered.
His hand tightened reflexively at her waist.
The silence stretched—one beat, two, three. She saw the war in his face. Saw the words he almost said. The ones that would crack this whole careful shell he’d built around himself.
I still love you.
Come with me.
We could try again.
He swallowed.
“And I want,” he said slowly, “to know that if anything happens tonight, I did everything I could to keep you out of the blast radius.”
The words landed dull and heavy where she’d braced for something sharp and bright.
Of course. Mission. Risk mitigation. Not her. Not really.
She swallowed the hurt his words caused and blinked back the sting of tears that threatened.
It wasn’t his fault she had let herself go so far down this fairytale fantasy.
It had been fifteen years. Of course Marshall wasn’t suddenly in love with her.
He’d walked away all those years ago. Duty first. Love wasn’t even on the list.
“Right,” she said, forcing a small smile. “Asset protection.”
Something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or perhaps awareness that he’d just handed her the most clinical version of the truth.
“Norah—”
Before he could finish, the music cut. Lights shifted toward the stage. The host’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“Please welcome the woman we’re all here to support tonight—Senator Katrina Morris.”