“No.”

Chandler McFarland said it softly, but it carried farther than Phoebe Fitzgerald’s fury.

Beyond the velvet rope security had thrown across the stage entrance, the annual McFarland Industries gala was coming apart.

Investors pressed toward exits.

Reporters held phones above their heads.

Waiters stood frozen with trays in their hands.

Somewhere near the east balcony, men in black suits shouted into radios.

Two minutes earlier, Chandler had been walking toward the microphone for his annual speech.

Then Diala Martin, one of the maids in a plain black uniform, had shattered a tray, sprinted across the marble, seized his face in both hands, and kissed him in front of two hundred guests.

Now security had found an abandoned gun on the east balcony.

Phoebe still held his arm.

Her red dress looked flawless; her face did not.

“Think about what this looks like,” she hissed.

“An employee threw herself at you on camera.

Your board will wake up to it.

Your investors will wake up to it.

Fire her before she sells her version.”

Chandler looked toward the kitchen doors where Diala had vanished.

The kiss had lasted seconds, but it did not feel like a stunt in his memory.

Her hands had been shaking.

She had turned his body away from the stage.

She had pulled back with apology already breaking across her face.

“She did not throw herself at me,” he said.

Phoebe’s mouth tightened.

“You barely know her name.”

That was true, and it shamed him.

A security supervisor had shoved the employee record into Chandler’s hand only moments before.

Diala Martin.

Three years on event service.

No complaints.

No commendations.

A woman who had worked inside his building long enough to know its bones while he had failed to know her face.

Chandler turned to the head of security.

“Where is she?”

“Back alley alarm tripped, sir.

Kitchen exit.”

“Bring her in through the service corridor.

No cameras.

No hands on her unless she refuses.”

Phoebe stared at him.

“You are making a mistake.”

“No,” Chandler said, looking back at the balcony.

“I almost made one.”

Outside, Diala stood beside a delivery truck with both palms against cold metal, trying to breathe.

The alley behind the tower was narrow and wet, painted silver by emergency lights.

Her ankle throbbed where one heel had twisted.

Her hair had fallen from its bun.

Her mouth still remembered Chandler’s mouth, and the memory terrified her almost as much as the gun.

She had kissed her boss.

Not brushed him.

Not warned him.

Kissed him, hard, in front of every camera in the room.

She pressed her fingers to her lips and shut her eyes.

Behind the shame came the image that had forced her body to move: the east balcony caught upside down in the chandelier, a dark figure, a long weapon aimed toward the mark where Chandler had been about to stand.

The kitchen exit opened.

Diala spun back.

Two security officers stepped out, followed by the supervisor who had announced the gun.

He lifted his hands when he saw her flinch.

“Ms.

Martin.

Mr.

McFarland wants to speak with you.”

“To fire me?” she asked.

“No.

He said no hands.”

That confused her more than a threat.

“What did they find?” she whispered.

The supervisor hesitated, then