Chapter 97: Shaken

Leah’s POV

I startle so badly that my tablet slips dangerously in my grip, clattering slightly before I manage to catch it against my chest.

When I look up, Nathan is already studying me closely, his dark brows drawn together in concern. His sharp eyes scan my pale face as if trying to read every terrifying thought racing through my mind.

“Leah... are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I hear myself blurt out automatically, before my brain can even process a coherent lie. “I’m fine. I just—”

I take a hurried step back, but my high heel catches the edge of the stage platform runner, causing me to trip hard. I stumble forward, right into his chest. He instinctively catches me by the waist, steadying me instantly.

“Okay,” he says softly. He keeps his grasp on my arm, angling his body to lean slightly toward me so as not to draw the curious eyes of the surrounding crowd. “You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Leah.”

His head of security appears out of nowhere at Nathan’s left shoulder, alert and ready to act. Nathan murmurs something to him in a low, directive voice, and the guard immediately nods, turning on his heel to clear a direct path away from the ballroom.

Nathan steers me through a side service door I’d walked past a dozen times tonight without ever registering.

Beyond it is a corridor running directly behind the main ballroom wall. It is brightly lit and smells faintly of floor wax.

The guard opens a wooden door at the far end of the hall.

It leads to a private back holding room. Inside is a plush settee, a standing mirror, and a small table set with bottled water and glasses.

The guard closes the door behind us and the noise of the gala drops to a muffled hum.

Nathan walks over to the table, picks up a fresh bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and holds it out to me.

“Sit.”

I obey numbly, sinking onto the edge of the settee. I take the water bottle from his hand with shaking fingers, and take a long and desperate drink.

I try to focus on the sharp sensation of the ice-cold liquid sliding down my throat, rather than the terrifying images on my phone screen that are still burning behind my eyelids.

“Look at me,” he commands gently, his tone softening.

I force my gaze up to meet his.

“Breathe.”

I do as told. Breathing in and out, slowly, mimicking the same rhythm I used to use during my worst panic attacks back in Atlanta. It’s a grounding technique I had found years ago online and never forgotten ever since.

I keep repeating the silent mantra in my head: You’re safe. You’re safe… You’re fine. He’s not going to—

I stop dead in the middle of it.

He’s here now.

Diego is here in New York, and he knows down to the exact block where I am. Even worse—he knows where I work.

What if he comes looking for me? What if… what if he’s here right now? Inside this very hall?

I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately fighting back the hot tears threatening to burst past my lashes.

I need to pull myself together. I need to hold it together.

Not here.

Not right now.

I feel Nathan’s gaze watching my every move. He doesn’t push me or bother me with questions. Instead, he simply sits on the edge of the table directly across from me, waiting patiently.

After a few tense minutes, the worst of the panic finally begins to recede. The room stops feeling like it is tilting on its axis, and I can finally hear individual sounds again rather than the deafening sound of white noise.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” He asks carefully. “I can take you. Right now. I’ll have the driver pull the car around.”

He glances briefly toward the guard stationed by the door. The guard straightens on cue.

“No,” I respond, my voice raspy but firm enough that Nathan visibly pauses. “No, I don’t need a hospital. I just—I just needed a brief moment. I’m okay.”

He studies me intently. “You don’t look okay, Leah. Please let me take you.”

“I know.” I take another small sip of water. “I will be. I just need a minute to clear my head.”

He gives me the time I ask for. Another few minutes pass in relative silence, interrupted only by the muffled sounds of the gala through the wall—an eruption of applause for a toast, followed by the string music starting up again.

Slowly, I get my breathing fully back under my control.

I straighten, force my shoulders back, and look down at my tablet screen, watching the operational notes resolve from a blurry smear into legible text.

“You should go home,” Nathan says quietly.

I open my mouth to automatically object, but he cuts me off before I can even form the words.

“I mean it. You’re clearly not well, and whatever is still running out there—” he gestures vaguely toward the ballroom wall “—can run perfectly fine without you for the remainder of the evening.”

I think on it for a second, weighing my options, and realize that he is right. I have managed to rein in the panic attack, but operating in this state of high anxiety means I won't be of any functional use to the executive team for the rest of the night.

I need to head home. I need to lock my doors, pull the blinds, and figure out my next move.

Maybe finally reach out to Victoria Kane, the Atlanta detective who had been helping me before I abruptly cut off all communication when I destroyed my old SIM card.

That alarming thought triggers a sudden realization.

How the hell did Diego get this private phone number, too?

The terrifying possibilities threaten to drag me right back into a spiral of panic, but I force myself to swallow it down, squaring my shoulders as I focus on the logistics of escape.

“Okay, sir,” I finally reply. “I’ll take a cab.”

“No. I’ll take you myself.”

“Sir—” I stop myself mid-sentence, clear my throat sharply, and try a different angle. “That’s really not necessary. You can’t leave now. Not while the gala is still in full swing. Rafael is still out there, and the evening isn't over. I’ll be completely fine taking a cab home.”

He looks at me, conflicted. I watch as my words register in his mind. I’m right, and he knows it.

He cannot just disappear from his own partnership gala with so many high-profile guests in attendance. People would start talking.

He is quiet for a long, tense moment.

“Fine,” he concedes tightly. “But I still won’t let you leave in a random cab. I’ll have my driver take you instead.”

“Sir, that’s also really not necessary—”

“He’ll take you,” Nathan repeats. “End of discussion.” His stern voice leaves zero room for further argument. He looks over at the security guard. “Go get Marcus and tell him to bring the car around to the east exit immediately.”

The guard gives a sharp nod and slips out the door. Nathan turns his gaze back to me, and there is a deep intensity in his green eyes that I simply do not have the emotional capacity to examine right now. He keeps his final instructions brief.

“Text me the second you’re home safe.”

I give a slow, heavy nod. “Okay, sir.”