Behind us, the ballroom sounded like someone had kicked open a beehive. I heard Marcus snapping orders at the AV crew. Somewhere nearby, a tray crashed to the floor. Glass broke.
Nina swallowed. “Do you need me with you?”
I wanted to say yes.
Suddenly, desperately, I wanted not to be alone.
But the message had said midnight.
Ethan’s study.
False panel.
And if someone had pushed me into detonating that room, they had done it because they believed I would act fast, privately, and precisely.
They were right.
“Go home,” I told Nina. “Back up every gala file. Every email. Every floor plan change. Every vendor note. Put it on a drive and put the drive somewhere outside your house.”
Her eyes sharpened. “Madison.”
“Do it.”
“Are we in danger?”
I thought of the anonymous photograph of me taken from across the ballroom.
I thought of the fear on Sophia’s face.
I thought of the sentence: Ethan was never the mastermind.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know from whom.”
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