Chapter 24
Evelyn's POV
By the time I arrived at the Willard InterContinental Hotel in Washington, D.C., the sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The hotel was a monument to old-world elegance, all marble columns and crystal chandeliers, the kind of place where presidents had stayed and treaties had been signed and history had been made in rooms that reeked of cigar smoke and backroom deals.
I presented my invitation at the entrance, smiling at the security guard with Emily Clarke's nervous, eager-to-please expression. He barely glanced at me before waving me through, his attention already shifting to the next guest. Good. Invisible was exactly what I needed to be.
Inside, the ballroom was a cathedral of wealth and power. Two hundred guests filled the space beneath glittering chandeliers. Their voices rose and fell in practiced rhythms—the sound of people who'd mastered the art of saying nothing meaningful.
Women in designer gowns laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Men in custom suits exchanged business cards and empty promises. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays of champagne and canapés, their faces blank and professional, as unremarkable as the furniture.
I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and moved deeper into the room, my eyes cataloging every detail with the cold efficiency of a predator assessing a hunting ground. Six exits—two main doors, two side doors leading to the kitchens, one door behind the stage, one emergency exit at the back. Twelve security personnel positioned at strategic intervals around the perimeter, their suits cut to conceal shoulder holsters, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Three surveillance cameras mounted in the corners, their lenses sweeping the room in slow, methodical arcs.
And there, in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by a cluster of wealthy donors and political sycophants, stood Senator Marcus Caldwell.
He was exactly as I'd expected: mid-fifties, silver hair immaculately styled, tailored suit that spoke of success but not excess. His smile was warm and genuine in a way that seemed almost out of place in a room full of practiced insincerity. He shook hands with the easy confidence of a man who'd earned his position through decades of actual work rather than empty promises, his voice carrying across the room in a clear baritone that sounded like he actually believed what he was saying.
Two bodyguards flanked him, their postures tense, their eyes sharp. They weren't amateurs—I could tell from the way they moved, the way they positioned themselves to cover each other's blind spots, the way their hands stayed close to their concealed weapons. Taking Caldwell out in a public setting would be nearly impossible. I'd need to find him alone, catch him off guard, strike before his security detail could react.
But that was a problem for later. Tonight was about observation.
I sipped my champagne and began to move through the crowd, adopting Emily Clarke's slightly awkward gait, her nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear, her tendency to smile too much and laugh too loud. I drifted toward the senator, close enough to observe but not so close as to draw attention, and listened as he held court.
"...the American people deserve transparency," Caldwell was saying, his voice resonating with genuine conviction. "They deserve to know that their tax dollars are being spent responsibly, that the companies we contract with are held to the highest standards of accountability. That's why I'm proposing this audit of all major defense contractors, starting with—"
He paused, and I caught something in his expression—a flicker of steel beneath the warmth. This was a man who meant what he said. A man who actually intended to follow through.
Which was exactly why someone wanted him dead.
It was always the honest ones who became targets. The ones who refused to play the game, who couldn't be bought or intimidated, who actually believed in doing the right thing. They were the ones who threatened the carefully constructed systems of power and profit that kept people like my employers in business.
For a moment, something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. But I pushed it away. I didn't get to have opinions about my targets. I didn't get to care whether they were good people or bad people. I just had to complete the job and earn my freedom.
That was all that mattered.
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, and for a moment I thought he'd seen me. But his attention moved past me without hesitation, landing on someone else, someone more important, someone worth his time.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my heart rate to steady. Calm down. You're nobody. You're invisible.
I was cataloging the positions of the security personnel, mentally mapping out Caldwell's likely routes through the venue, when I heard a voice behind me—low, amused, and unmistakably familiar.
"Good evening, Miss. I don't believe we've been introduced."
My heart stuttered, then kicked into overdrive. I turned slowly, forcing Emily Clarke's polite, slightly flustered smile onto my face, and found myself looking up at Julian Russell.
He stood less than three feet away, dressed in a black Tom Ford suit that fit him like it had been tailored to his body—which it probably had. His pale gray eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch, but there was something different in his expression tonight. Something warmer. Something that looked almost like... interest.
There was a small pin on his lapel—the Titan Security logo, a stylized eagle with its wings spread wide. Of course. He was working security for the event. For Caldwell.
Shit.