The Pierre Hotel loomed over Fifth Avenue, a fortress of limestone and light. Elayne stood near the main entrance, smoothing the skirt of her navy blue cocktail dress. It was three seasons old, a stark contrast to the custom couture exiting the limousines.
She approached the security checkpoint. The guard, a man with a clipboard and a headset, frowned at her.
"Name?"
She presented her phone, showing the digital invitation for "Elayne Parks."
He ran his finger down the list. Up and down. "I'm sorry, ma'am. You're not on the list."
"Check again. My husband is Calhoun Maynard." Her eyes conveyed the message with cool authority.
"I see Mr. Maynard and his party are already inside. You are not listed as a guest." He crossed his arms. "Please step aside."
Elayne stepped back, her face burning. She walked around the corner, away from the paparazzi flashes. She knew this hotel. She had done threat assessments for three different diplomatic events here. She knew the service entrance on 61st Street.
She slipped through the loading dock, dodging a delivery of ice sculptures. The kitchen was a chaotic inferno of shouting chefs and clattering pans. The air was thick with the smell of roasting duck and heavy grease. It clung to her hair, coating her skin.
"Hey! You can't be here!" a sous-chef yelled.
Elayne met his gaze, raised a single finger to her lips in a universal "shush" gesture, and then pointed towards a fire alarm panel with a look of intense concern. As he turned, distracted for a critical second, she melted into the shadows behind a stack of crates. She didn't stop walking.
She pushed through the swinging doors and emerged into the ballroom. The transition was jarring-from the noise and heat of the kitchen to the cool, scented air of the gala. She quickly ducked behind a massive floral arrangement of hydrangeas to catch her breath.
The room was a sea of tuxedos and diamonds. She scanned the crowd. There was Theodore, holding court with the board members of the Van der Sloot Media Group. And there was Conrad, radiant in the center of the dance floor, cameras flashing around him like lightning.
Elayne's heart hammered against her ribs. She moved along the perimeter, sticking to the shadows.
Then she saw him.
Near the champagne tower, a man in a midnight-blue tuxedo stood with his back to her. The cut of the jacket, the way he held his drink-it was Calhoun. He was wearing the tuxedo he had worn on their first anniversary.
Elayne took a step forward, a cold dread, not relief, flooding her chest. He was here. He wasn't out of town. He had lied.
She started to weave through the crowd. "Calhoun!" she called out in her mind, though the music swallowed her silent presence.
As she got closer, she saw a woman approach him. A tall brunette in red. Calhoun leaned in, smiling that charming, lopsided smile that the world saw, but she rarely did. He whispered something in the woman's ear.
Elayne froze behind a pillar.
Calhoun pulled his phone out. He looked at the screen-Elayne saw her own contact photo flash for a second. An alert from her encrypted app. He frowned, tapped the screen aggressively, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He didn't answer. He dismissed the notification.
The brunette laughed and walked away. It was Hali Potts, the daughter of a rival family. Just business. Okay.
But then Calhoun set his glass down. He looked around the room, his eyes shifting nervously. He adjusted his tie and began to walk toward the East Wing-the VIP section.
Elayne followed him. She kept her distance, using the clusters of guests as shields.
"Well, look who it is," a voice sneered.
Elayne turned. It was two girls she had gone to prep school with. They were looking at her old dress with undisguised pity.
"The mute Maynard bride," one whispered loud enough to be heard. "Did you sneak in? That dress is so... vintage."
Elayne ignored them. She kept her eyes on Calhoun. He reached the double doors of the VIP lounge. Two massive bodyguards stood outside. Calhoun nodded to them, and they opened the door.
For a split second, before the door closed, Elayne saw inside.
She saw a flash of a familiar document case. The same one that held the original, signed copy of her NDA.
The door clicked shut. The bodyguards crossed their arms.
Elayne's blood ran cold. The puzzle pieces slammed together in her mind, forming a picture she didn't want to see.
She couldn't get past the guards. Not like this.
She looked around frantically. A waiter was pushing a room service cart down the hallway, heading toward the service elevators. It was laden with buckets of champagne and fresh towels.
Elayne intercepted him. She reached into her purse and pulled out a thin, metallic card.
"The fire alarm on the third floor is about to have a sensor malfunction," she communicated through a pre-written text on her phone, her voice hard and clear in digital form. "You have sixty seconds to be elsewhere. This card will open any master suite. Consider it a bonus."
The waiter looked at the master keycard, then at her desperate eyes. "Lady, I could get fired."
"Or you could be a hero who reported a faulty alarm," she texted back, already walking away.
A minute later, Elayne was wearing a waiter's vest that was two sizes too big, her hair tucked under a cap. She kept her head down, gripping the handle of the cart. She pushed it toward the VIP doors.
"Room service," she mumbled to the guards. "More champagne requested."
The guard looked at the cart, then grunted and opened the door.
Elayne pushed the cart into the lion's den.
