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I pick up a fresh tray of miniature pastries from the service station, ready to head back out toward the main lounge area, when I catch Sarah shaking her head at me from across the pantry line. I pause, setting the tray slightly on the stainless-steel counter to wait for her.
Sarah steps up to the rack, setting down her empty tray with a soft clatter, a raised eyebrow on her face. "Look at you," she murmurs, nudging my arm. "You actually look like you're in a good mood for once."
I laugh, rolling my eyes as I grab my tray again. "What? Can't I just be happy? You know we're not allowed to idle around here anyway, or George will find a way to cut our pay."
Sarah scoffs, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "Well, your good mood might not last long. The Devlin brothers are here—Nolan and his minions. Looks like they’re among the main hosts tonight."
My stomach drops instantly. The color drains from my face as I follow her gaze across the glittering ballroom. Sure enough, standing near the elevated VIP lounge, surrounded by men in sharp suits, is Nolan Devlin. His dark, calculating eyes are already locked directly onto me, a slow, terrifying smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
I tear my eyes away immediately, my pulse spiking as panic threatens to crash through the relief I felt earlier.
I turn my back to the VIP section, looking at Sarah with pleading eyes. "Sarah, please... can you make sure that side of the hall is completely catered to? I can't go over there."
Sarah takes one look at my expression, her playful tone instantly shifting into solid support. She winks, giving my forearm a firm squeeze. "I got you, Alexis. Stay on the west floor; I'll handle the Devlins."
"Thank you," I breathe out, relief washing over me.
I lift my tray high, turn on my heel, and head quickly in the exact opposite direction to keep serving, desperate to lose myself in the crowd before Nolan decides to make a move.
I push through the thick clusters of wealthy guests, keeping my head low and my focus pinned entirely on my work. But as I lift another glass from a passing tray, a striking, impossibly tall figure near the edge of the service area catches my attention.
Even from twenty feet away, his sheer height gives him away, towering heads above the crowd.
Cain.
My breath hitches in my throat. He's disguised—dressed in the exact same sleek black uniform as the temporary Blackwood catering staff, effortlessly blending into the shadowed service areas while his dark, sharp eyes remain fixed on the Devlin table. He must have slipped in through the back catering entrance, moving like a ghost among the busboys and bartenders.
He hasn't noticed me yet. I instinctively step behind a tall floral arrangement, quelling the sudden, desperate urge to march right over to him and drag him out of sight.
What is he doing here? If Nolan or any of his brothers catch even a glimpse of his face, this high-end gala will turn into an absolute bloodbath in seconds.
A sharp, painful knot of anxiety twists in my stomach. I try to force my eyes back to my tray, but I can't look away. I am terrified for him.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement near the VIP area. Brendan Devlin pulls a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and starts heading casually down the quiet back corridor leading to the private terrace, clearly looking for a quiet spot to smoke.
My heart drops into my stomach.
A second later, I watch Cain step out of the shadow of the service station, his predatory stride silently closing the distance as he slips down the dark corridor right after him.
Oh no. He's going to get caught. No matter how powerful Cain is, this is the Devlins' event—he is completely outnumbered and out of his depth on their turf.
Against my better judgment, I set my silver tray down on a side table and slip into the hallway after him.
The air in the quiet corridor is cool and damp. Cain is striding silently toward the double doors leading out to the private terrace where Brendan just vanished. But right before Cain can reach the handle, the door swings back open. Brendan steps inside hurriedly, a frustrated frown on his face as he pats his jacket pockets searching for something.
All Brendan has to do is look up, and he'll be staring straight at the man who wants to destroy his family.
Panic surges through me like electric shock. I sprint down the carpeted hall, closing the distance in seconds. I grab Cain’s thick forearm, spinning him around away from the door.
He tenses instantly, his dark eyes flaring as his free hand swiftly reaches toward the waist of his trousers—probably for a weapon hidden under his uniform shirt. But the second his eyes land on my face, the deadly posture melts away, replaced by pure heat.
From my peripheral vision, I see Brendan pause, his head snapping up as he hears the rush of footsteps. He starts walking directly toward us, his brows knit together.
I keep my eyes wide, locking onto Cain’s.
"What are you doing back here?" I exclaim loudly, keeping my tone sharp and annoyed enough for Brendan to hear. "George is going to be furious! I sent you back to the main pantry ten minutes ago to find the missing vintage wine for Table Four. Go find him and explain why you're idling around, or we're both getting fired! Hurry!"
Cain narrows his eyes, his mouth setting into a hard line. For a terrifying beat, I think he’s going to refuse to play along. Brendan is only a few feet behind him now.
