Chapter 22
NORAH
Norah barely remembered the walk.
One moment, Marshall was standing in front of her with fury in his eyes and a gun pointed at his chest. The next, he was gone.
Security peeled him away down the corridor, and Hale’s hand settled at the small of her back, steering her in the opposite direction. “Come,” he murmured. “There’s someone you need to meet.”
Her feet moved because they were told to. Because the world had shrunk to the pressure of his palm and the roar in her ears.
She shouldn’t be upset that he was gone.
After all, it had been her choice. She could have let him investigate Hale, but she couldn’t fight the feeling that she should be more loyal to Hale.
She’d been foolish to let Marshall impact her decisions so thoroughly.
Hadn’t she become a different woman since she’d watched Marshall walk away all those years ago—taking her romantic hopes and dreams with him?
Marshall was gone. She sent him away. She chose Hale. Marshall used her and nearly turned her against the man she’d trusted for a decade. The thoughts circled in her head like they belonged to someone else.
They passed through a service hallway lined with bland beige doors and industrial carpet that didn’t fit the glitter of the gala. The music from the ballroom faded behind them, replaced by the low hum of vents and distant clatter from the kitchen.
“I’m . . . sorry about that,” Hale said, voice pitched low and regretful, as if Marshall’s removal had pained him personally. “I had hoped your evening would be more enjoyable.”
Her throat felt scraped raw. “He shouldn’t have been here,” she managed. It sounded like agreement. It sounded like betrayal. She didn’t know which was worse.
Hale’s hand squeezed lightly. “Men like that,” he said, “forget that there are lines. That the rest of us have to live with consequences long after they’ve pulled the trigger and moved on.”
She thought of Marshall on her couch. Marshall in her ruined apartment, then carefully arranging brand new pillows. Marshall with his voice rough in her ear, telling her she wasn’t alone.
And then she thought of him tonight, slipping Hale’s phone out of his pocket like she was just . . . an angle. A route. A tool.
Her chest twisted.
“He’s dangerous,” Hale added gently. “I’m sorry you didn’t see that sooner.”
Norah swallowed hard and said nothing.
At the end of the hallway, Hale swiped a badge at an unmarked door. A green light blinked, and the lock disengaged with a soft click. He opened it and gestured for her to step through.
Norah went.
The room on the other side didn’t match any part of the hotel she’d seen tonight.
It was quieter. Colder. A private salon dressed in understated wealth—dark paneled walls, muted art, a long conference table flanked by leather chairs.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city spread out in glittering lines, but thick sheer curtains softened the view, turning it into something distant and unreal.
Senator Katrina Morris stood near the windows, a glass of champagne in her hand, head bent toward another woman. Norah recognized Morris’s profile immediately, but the woman beside her was a stranger.
She was . . . not what Norah expected. But she knew instantly who the woman was. Marshall’s description of the woman lacked a photo, but her presence was unmistakable.
Based on his description, she’d half-expected some villainous theatrics. Instead, she exuded quiet, contained power.
The woman wore a simple black dress that could’ve been mourning or couture, a string of pearls at her throat, dusty blonde hair swept back from a pale, angular face.
The lines at the corners of her eyes were etched, but not by laughter.
Her posture was effortless, but it was the kind of effortlessness that only came from knowing the room belonged to you.
She turned as Hale and Norah entered, and her gaze landed on Norah with unhurried curiosity. Like she was studying a new piece for her collection.
“Richard,” Senator Morris said, her smile widening. “There you are. Norah, lovely to see you again.”
Norah’s hand felt numb around her clutch. “Senator,” she said, somehow finding her voice. “I—thank you for the invitation.”
Morris crossed the room with practiced grace, taking Norah’s free hand between both of hers. “Please. Katrina,” she corrected. “We’re far beyond titles in a room like this. After all, you’re about to be a much bigger part of where we’re headed.”
Norah’s stomach dipped. “I . . . I was inspired by your speech,” she admitted.
Hale stepped up next to her. “Norah here is the reason we caught the initial irregularities on NorthBridge. Before they became a much bigger problem.”
“Mm.” The low sound came from the intense woman by the window.
Norah’s attention snapped to her.
Up close, her eyes were even sharper. Not cold, exactly. Cold she could’ve handled. This was something worse. Intelligent. Assessing. Like she was constantly running simulations in her head, calculating which version of the future suited her best.
Morris stepped aside, making a small, deferential gesture. “Norah, allow me to introduce Ksenia Sidarov. She’s been instrumental in helping us understand the broader landscape.”
Instrumental. Broader landscape.
Marshall’s voice echoed in Norah’s mind.
We think Saltykova is Ksenia Sidarov. She’s a Russian oligarch widow with a grudge. And she is beyond ruthless.
Sidarov extended a hand. “Ms. Winslow,” she said. Her accent barely touched the edges of her words, but it was clearly Eastern European, polished by years of international rooms. “It is a pleasure at last. Richard has spoken highly of you.”
Norah’s fingers were cold as she took the offered hand. Sidarov’s grip was cool.
“Thank you,” Norah managed. “I . . . appreciate the opportunity to be here.”
Sidarov’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Opportunity is everything, yes? In politics. In finance. In survival.”
Morris laughed softly. “Don’t let her intimidate you, Norah. Ksenia frightens world leaders, not analysts.”
Sidarov’s gaze never left Norah’s face. “We will see,” she said, something like amusement glinting in her eyes. “Sometimes the analysts are the most dangerous people in the room.”
Her tone made it sound like a compliment.
It didn’t feel like one.
The door opened again, harder this time.
Charles Harrington III stumbled in. Better known as Trip.
Norah’s breath snagged.
He wasn’t the slick, smooth operator she’d seen in Fortune magazine and on the Wall Street Network coverage. His tie was crooked, his hair damp at the temples, his eyes too wide. There was a sheen of sweat on his face that had nothing to do with the ballroom heat.
Two large men in suits followed him in, one with a hand clamped on his arm. Not hotel security.
Sidarov didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. The muscles in Trip’s jaw clenched at the sight of her profile.
“Ms. Sidarov,” he started, voice too loud in the quiet room. “I—I can explain—”
“Of course you can,” she said mildly. “That is what you are here for.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flicked to Hale, then to Morris, then—desperately—to Norah, as if just realizing she was there.
His expression changed. His panic sharpened into something like accusation.
“You,” he said. “You’re the . . . you’re the one who found—”
“That’s enough,” Hale said quietly.
Norah’s spine went rigid. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Found what?
Trip ignored Hale, his words tumbling over each other. “You weren’t supposed to see those transfers. We had it contained. I cleaned it. I did what I was told, and then you—”
Sidarov lifted one finger.
The room went still.
Morris’s smile slipped, replaced by a tight, professional neutrality. Hale’s features smoothed into placid attentiveness.
Trip’s voice choked off mid-word.
Sidarov finally turned fully to face him.
“I am very tired,” she said conversationally. “Do you know why, Mr. Harrington?”
Trip’s mouth opened, but no sound came out beyond a pitiful wheeze of air.
“Because,” she continued, “for months, I have given you resources. Protection. Time. You had one task. To move my money cleanly into Morris’s campaign coffers.
To make sure that when certain . . . ambitious projects came to fruition, no one would be able to follow the trail.
Such as aggressively backing an upcoming presidential candidate. ”
She tilted her head.
“And yet a woman with a spreadsheet and a notebook found you in a matter of days.”
Norah’s lungs emptied. She felt suddenly, painfully aware of her own existence, every cell buzzing with the wrongness of being there.
Trip’s gaze cut to her again, wild. “It wasn’t my fault! No one told me she’d be looking at that level—”
“Enough,” Morris said sharply, the first true edge in her voice all evening. “You had oversight. You signed off. You assured us the NorthBridge conduits were buried.”
“I—there were last-minute changes, the shell rotations—”
“Excuses,” Sidarov said, almost gently. “You had every tool. You failed. And now, because of your failure, we have had to expend extra . . . effort. Extra risk. Extra attention. All because you could not do something as simple as stay ahead of one careful girl with a calculator.”
Norah flinched. Her fingers dug into the silk at her hip to keep from shaking.
Trip lurched forward a step, only stopped by the bruising hand on his arm. “Please. I can fix it. I can re-layer the shells, shift to a new vendor, move the portfolios. Give me two weeks—no, one—”
“And who will you blame when you fail again?” Sidarov asked, studying her nails.
“Her? Richard? The Senator? The market?” She lifted her gaze, and this time there was no amusement in it.
Only fatigue. And something cold enough to burn.
“I do not enjoy incompetence, Mr. Harrington. But I enjoy loose ends even less.”
Norah’s brain tripped over the phrase. Loose ends?