"You're dangerous, Eta Turner," he said. "I've never met anyone like you."
"Is Preston fired?"
"Suspended pending an investigation. His position is complicated, but he's finished here."
Gabriel looked at her, his blue eyes searching hers. "Who are you really, Eta? A woman with your talent doesn't just appear out of nowhere. Who taught you to look for the lie in the numbers?"
Eta looked away toward the city lights. "My father," she whispered. "He was the CFO of a company very much like this one. He taught me everything."
"Where is he now?"
"Prison," Eta said, the word tasting like ash. "For embezzlement. He was framed by his partners. They destroyed him, and then they came for me. That's why I hide, Gabriel. The people who framed my father know I have evidence that could clear his name. I've been running for three years."
Gabriel's expression hardened. The playfulness vanished.
"Stop running," he said. He took her hand. "Let them come. If they want you, they have to go through every lawyer, investigator, and security resource I have."
For a moment, Eta allowed herself to believe him. She allowed herself to feel safe.
But safety was an illusion.
Down in the lobby, a man in a trench coat argued with a security guard. He was not on the list. He held up a grainy photograph of Eta leaving her apartment in Queens.
"I don't need an appointment," the man said, his accent Eastern European. "I just need to deliver a message to Ms. Turner. Tell her father says hello."
The Mercer Foundation Winter Gala was the kind of event where the champagne cost more than the average mortgage and the guest list was a who's who of global power. It was held in the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel, a sprawling expanse of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and aggressive opulence.
Eta stood before the mirror in the guest suite Gabriel had booked for her. On the bed lay the dress he had sent, a custom emerald-green silk gown. For three years, she had worn baggy sweaters and oversized uniforms. She had erased herself. Wearing something this visible felt like painting a target on her chest.
A knock at the door made her jump.
"Eta," Gabriel called through the wood. "The car is waiting."
She took a deep breath. She thought about her father sitting in prison because others had been stronger and more connected. She thought about Preston trying to sabotage her. She was done being small.
She dressed, pinned up her hair, and opened the door.
Gabriel stopped breathing for a moment. He was waiting in the hallway in a tuxedo, adjusting his cufflinks. His hands fell to his sides.
"My God," he murmured. "You're going to cause a riot."
"That's the point, isn't it?" Eta said, forcing confidence she did not entirely feel. "If I'm going to be your senior analyst, I need to look the part."
"You don't look like an analyst," Gabriel said, offering his arm. "You look like a queen. Stay close tonight. Cohen has security on the perimeter and inside the ballroom."
They took the private elevator down. When the doors opened, the noise of the gala hit them like a wave: laughter, glass, the swell of a string quartet.
As they stepped into the ballroom, heads turned. Gabriel Mercer, the eternal bachelor, had arrived with a woman who seemed entirely comfortable beside him.
"Ignore them," Gabriel whispered. "They're just sharks."
He introduced Eta simply as "Ms. Turner, my strategic adviser." He did not explain her background. He did not justify her presence. His tone made the point. She was there because she belonged there.
An hour into the night, the orchestra shifted into a slow waltz.
"Dance with me," Gabriel said.
He led her onto the floor. His hand settled at her back. Eta placed one hand on his shoulder. They moved together with surprising ease.
"You're trembling," Gabriel said softly.
"I'm terrified," Eta admitted. "Half the people in this room look like they want to stab me."
"Let them try," Gabriel said. "I meant what I told you. I protect my people."
The implication of the phrase hung between them. For a moment, Eta forgot the danger. She forgot the threats. She felt only the pull of the man holding her.
"Gabriel, I—"
A waiter bumped into them.
"Apologies, sir, ma'am," he muttered, keeping his head down.
As he pulled away, Eta felt something pressed into her palm. A folded cocktail napkin.
Her blood turned cold.
She unfolded it. Four words were written in jagged black ink: NICE DRESS. WRONG CHOICE.
Below the words was a symbol drawn in red: a double-headed eagle holding a serpent.
Eta gasped and dropped the napkin.
"He's here."
"Who?" Gabriel asked.
He snatched up the napkin and looked at the symbol. His expression hardened.
"The Sokolov organization," Eta whispered. "They're the people connected to what happened to my father. They're here for me."
Gabriel immediately signaled Cohen to secure the exits. The music stopped. The crowd murmured as security moved into position.
"We have to leave," Eta said, panic rising. "Someone knew exactly where I would be."