Page 42 of The Voicemail

“I won’t let him get to you,” I tell her seriously. “I respect that you want to do your job, even if I don’t like it. But I won’t let anyone hurt you while you do it.”

Her eyes go glassy and she swallows hard again, but she only nods.

“Just make sure this doesn’t blow back on me,” she says tightly. “The last thing I need is for Mr. Bellamy to complain.”

I look over at the man, whose face is red from too much champagne. He’s laughing loudly at something a donor said, but his eyes are still on me, watching to see what I’ll do.

Just then, a woman in pearls approaches. I recognize her from the donor list. Mrs. Hensley, a very difficult client, but someone rich enough to warrant special attention. I take a small step back to give Elena room to do her job.

“Elena, dear,” I hear her say. “Is Mr. Bellamy available? I was hoping to speak with him about the Carrington piece.”

Elena smiles brightly, as if Mrs. Hensley is the most important person in the room.

“Of course, Mrs. Hensley. It looks like he’s with someone at the moment but give me five minutes. I’ll pull him away so you can have a moment with him.”

Mrs. Hensley laughs happily and places a hand on Elena’s arm. Elena flinches slightly, enough for me to notice, but I doubt Mrs. Hensley does.

“You’re such a miracle worker, darling,” Mrs. Hensley gushes. “This place would fall apart without you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Elena answers demurely. “We’re a well-oiled machine. All of us contribute to the whole.”

“And you’re humble, too! I’m going to tell Julian to give you a raise.”

Elena chuckles. “As long as you’re happy, so am I.”

The moment the woman turns away, Elena’s demeanor shifts as she catches a server heading toward one of the installations with a tray of red wine.

“No red past the center line,” she tells him firmly, and it sounds like it isn’t the first time she’s had to give that instruction tonight.

The server startles a bit and stares at her in confusion. “I was told it was full service,” he says, making excuses.

“You were told wrong,” Elena answers. “White wine and champagne are the only beverages allowed past the center line. Red stays near the back wall. If anyone complains, tell them they can speak to me directly.”

He nods and disappears. I watch her in silence, impressed. She’s probably still scared, but no one else would know it. Not Mrs. Hensley or any of the servers. Not Mr. Bellamy. She’s good at her job. Really good. I’ve seen men twice her size freeze under less pressure than she’s carrying tonight.

Just as I’m thinking it, my phone vibrates with a text from Luca.

In the camera room. Service logs don’t match the staff list.

I type back quickly.

Hold anyone who tries to leave through the service corridor.

Elena turns her full attention on me then, eyeing my phone suspiciously. “What’s happened?” she asks immediately.

I shake my head and pocket my phone.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” I tell her as honestly as I can. “My team is handling it.”

“I deserve to know,” she argues.

I shake my head. “You can’t have it both ways,” I say quietly. “You wanted to stay, so stay. Be present. Focus on your job and let me focus on mine.”

Her mouth tightens and she looks around the room, like she’s expecting Tomaso to pop out from behind a well-dressed guest.

“Fine,” she says, turning away from me.

Not a moment too soon, either, because my phone buzzes again.