Chapter 5

Jeannette takes a deep, shaky breath, forcing the heat from the elevator encounter out of her lungs. She squares her shoulders and walks confidently down the thick red carpet toward the grand entrance of the ballroom.

Four massive private security guards wearing the Langley crest on their lapels block the double doors. They hold digital tablets, scanning the faces of the arriving guests.

Jeannette steps up to the velvet rope. "Jeannette Buck," she says, her tone polite but firm.

The lead guard swipes a thick finger across his screen. He frowns. He swipes again. His face hardens into a sneer. "You're not on the list."

Jeannette's stomach drops. She blinks, the reality of the situation hitting her instantly. Devyn. He knew she was back from Europe. He deliberately removed her name from the guest list to humiliate her and prevent her from causing a scene.

She looks past the guards, through the crack in the heavy oak doors. She can see Devyn standing near the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, laughing. Zara is clinging to his arm, wearing a diamond necklace that belongs to the Langley estate.

A hot spike of fury pierces Jeannette's chest. She turns back to the guard, her eyes narrowing. "Call the event coordinator. I am Devyn Langley's fiancée."

The guard lets out a loud, mocking laugh. He looks her up and down with blatant disrespect. "Listen, lady. Half the women in Boston try to claim they're related to the Langleys to get in here. Step aside before I have you physically removed."

A group of minor socialites waiting in line behind Jeannette start whispering.

"Isn't that the Beaumont girl?"

"I heard Devyn dumped her. How embarrassing, showing up uninvited."

The whispers are like tiny needles pricking her skin. Jeannette's jaw tightens. She grips her clutch so hard her knuckles turn white. She calculates the distance to the service hallway, wondering if she can bypass security and cut the power to the main screens from the basement.

"Is there a problem here?"

A smooth, cultured, distinctly British voice cuts through the tension.

A man in a sleek silver-grey tailored suit steps out from the ballroom. He pushes a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. This is Gerry Mayer, the Chief of Staff for Kian Koch.

Gerry's sharp eyes sweep over the crowd and lock instantly onto Jeannette's glaring red dress. A flicker of understanding crosses his face. Ten minutes ago, his boss had spoken through the earpiece with a terrifyingly calm directive: Go to the front door. Escort the woman in the red dress inside. Treat her like she owns the building.

Gerry walks straight past the Langley security guards as if they are invisible. He stops in front of Jeannette and bows his head slightly, a gesture of profound respect.

"Good evening, madam," Gerry says, his voice carrying perfectly over the quiet crowd. "Mr. Koch has been waiting for you at the main table. I apologize for the delay at the door."

The lead Langley guard pales instantly. He recognizes the silver-suited man. Everyone in high finance knows Gerry Mayer. He is the right hand of the devil himself.

"Mr. Mayer," the guard stammers, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Is... is this woman with Mr. Koch?"

Gerry turns his head slowly. He looks at the guard over the rim of his glasses. The absolute disdain in his eyes is suffocating. "Do I need to clear my boss's guest list with you?"

"No! No, sir. My apologies." The guard practically trips over his own feet rushing to unhook the velvet rope. He pulls the heavy oak door open wide, bowing his head.

Jeannette's mind is spinning. Koch? The name rings a massive, terrifying bell in the financial world, but she has no idea who this man is, or why he is helping her.

But Jeannette is a survivor. She doesn't hesitate.

She lifts her chin, her face a mask of aristocratic boredom. She doesn't even glance at the sweating guard. She steps past the rope, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

The socialites in line fall dead silent, their mouths hanging open as they watch the 'discarded' fiancée walk through the doors under the protection of Wall Street royalty.

Inside the ballroom, Gerry walks half a step behind Jeannette, guiding her through the glittering crystal corridor.

"Thank you," Jeannette whispers without moving her lips. "But I think you have the wrong person. I don't want to owe a debt I can't pay."

Gerry pushes his glasses up again. A small, knowing smile touches his lips. "I assure you, Miss Buck, I never mistake the people my boss specifically points out."

Jeannette's breath hitches. Her mind flashes back to the dark, suffocating elevator. The man with the cane. The terrifying scent of cedar.

Before she can ask anything else, a thunderous round of applause erupts from the center of the room. The stage lights flare to life.

Gerry stops walking. He gestures toward the VIP tables surrounding the stage. "He is waiting. The floor is yours, Miss Buck."

Gerry steps backward, melting seamlessly into the shadows of the room.

Jeannette stands at the edge of the light. She takes a deep breath, letting the oxygen fill her lungs. Her eyes scan the sea of tuxedos and gowns, locking onto her target. Devyn.

She steps into the light. The red velvet of her dress catches the glare of the chandeliers. She walks forward, her steps perfectly timed to the beat of the jazz band playing in the corner. The show is about to begin.