Chapter 2

I looked up.

I’d already confirmed Blake’s people were moving in Corridor A.

Next, I needed to map the security and the camera blind spots.

Only then could I start the next phase.

Blake stood in the middle of a ring of people, smiling at his own pace. The rim of his glass paused at his lips for a beat before he set it down again.

The four trusted men hadn’t changed positions. Only the one near the side door occasionally flicked his gaze toward the hallway, like he was counting who went in and out.

I carried my drink over to toast Blake, using the moment to read the traffic flow. I needed a route out of the ballroom that would let me get close to the keycard gate.

To the left was a service passage, its door half ajar. Behind the stage area hung a curtain—likely leading to a storage room or a back-of-house corridor.

The main entrance led to the elevator lobby. A hotel guard stood there, along with a man who didn’t look like hotel staff, posted like he was waiting for orders.

I had to check both routes.

I deliberately took the path closer to the side door. As I passed the service passage, I angled my body and swept the gap with the corner of my eye—two staff were swapping plates inside. Another pushed a cart draped with a white cloth, a row of glass bottles pinned beneath it. Farther in, a security camera sat in the corner.

Blake had scouted ahead. No blind spots here.

Service passage: dead.

The crowd around Blake was packed tight. Compliments rolled over him like a tide—everyone fighting to stand one step closer.

“Blake, who tailored that suit? It fits like it was poured on.”

“I heard you’re negotiating that acquisition. Brutal. I couldn’t pull that off.”

“How’d you do it? Even if we worked our whole lives, we’d never touch your circle.”

Blake only smiled, tapped glasses lightly, and murmured a few soft lines—“Just luck,” “You’re all doing great.” The more casual he sounded, the more excited they got, like they’d been personally acknowledged.

When I drew near, the man half a step ahead on Blake’s right lifted his eyes. His gaze ran over my hands, my glass, my name tag, then settled on my face. He didn’t say a word, but he shifted just enough to cut off my straight-line approach.

I stopped at once, changed angles, looped in from the side, kept my distance, and raised my glass first.

“Blake,” I said, not loud. “A toast. Thanks for not throwing me out.”

Low enough. Soft enough. Like I was begging for a place.

Laughter popped around us, and someone clapped. “Hear that? Ethan’s got manners.”

Blake didn’t clink glasses with me. He only lifted his own in acknowledgement and gave a slight nod.

That was him—never letting anything uncertain get too close, never leaving behind unnecessary contact.

I took a sip, set my glass down, and eased back half a step, as if relieved.

As I retreated, I noticed a faint bulge at his inner jacket pocket. The fabric pulled tight in a way that didn’t sit naturally.

Confirmed.

I turned and went back to my original spot.

Mason basically treated me like staff. “Ethan, since you’re so eager, go order another round. Stop drinking water.”

I nodded. “Sure.”

I left the ballroom again. I’d planted the bug earlier, but I hadn’t taken a proper look around.

A server spotted me and smiled. “What can I get you?”

I gestured toward the ballroom. “Two more bottles of red.”

The server nodded and turned away. I didn’t hurry back.

I walked toward the elevator lobby, pretending to look for a restroom sign. The man who didn’t look like hotel staff glanced at me, his eyes lingering on my name tag, but he said nothing. The hotel guard only gave a polite nod.

A camera by the elevators covered the corridor. Farther ahead was the keycard gate to the suite wing—same as before, two men posted there, positions tighter now. One finger pressed behind his ear; the other man’s toes angled outward, ready to move at any second.

Blake had this place wrapped too tight. The main entrance route was dead too.

That left one option: the restroom. No cameras there. I’d have to find a way through the restroom ventilation.

I went back into the ballroom. Mason asked, “Where’s the wine?”

I put on a flash of panic. “It’ll take a minute. They’re decanting it.”

“You’re useless,” someone laughed. “How’d you ever captain the team—by yelling?”

Another voice chimed in. “Back then he was all muscle. Bet he never used his brain once.”

“And now he doesn’t even have the muscle.”

Laughter rose again—like they’d finally found a safe outlet to dump every ounce of resentment they’d swallowed ten years ago.

I didn’t push back. I even nodded. “Maybe.”

That “maybe” thrilled them more than any defense. They didn’t want an argument. They wanted my admission that I’d lost.

Once I admitted it, they could go further.

The guy leading the rhythm slapped the table. “Alright. Since Ethan’s being such a good sport, let’s play another one. Everyone give Ethan some advice—so he won’t end up this pathetic.”

Someone grabbed the first punch. “Get a real job.”

“Go be a gym coach. At least you can still sell whatever’s left of those old muscles.”

“Or be security. Didn’t we just say Blake’s probably hiring?”

“Yeah, go stand by the door. Suits you.”

They warmed up fast, stacking lines on top of each other like they were earning points.

Over by Blake, someone raised a glass and laughed loud. “Come on—toast Blake! To the real winner of our class!”

About half the room lifted their glasses. The clink of glass ran together in a single bright chain. Blake stood under the lights, lifted his glass in response, and gave a calm nod—steady as ever.

Then a clearer voice came through my earpiece, like someone had stepped close to the bug.

“Don’t let any unfamiliar faces near Corridor A. Anyone coming out of the ballroom either.”

I set my glass down, fingers loosening slightly under the tablecloth.

Another line followed. “They’re about to move.”

I looked up at Blake. He wasn’t being smothered by the crowd anymore. The people around him started tightening their circle on purpose, opening a lane toward the side door. His four trusted men adjusted with them—like a net being dragged from the ballroom toward the corridor.

Blake was leaving the ballroom for the suite wing.

The countdown started.

I needed a clean excuse to step away.

I picked up a wine bottle and started pouring for everyone, unhurried, like I really was a waiter.

On the third glass, I deliberately tipped the bottle. A few drops stained the tablecloth.

“Fuck,” the guy snapped. “You can’t even pour?”

I grabbed napkins fast. “Sorry.”

“What’s ‘sorry’ good for?” He raised his voice. “This is you. Always screwing things up. Ten years ago, same. Ten years later, same.”

That was his old debt talking. Ten years ago, I was the one in the spotlight on the field. He was in the stands. Now the roles were flipped, and he was collecting interest.

I wiped the tablecloth clean, set the bottle down, and put on an embarrassed look. “I’m gonna hit the restroom.”

I stood and headed that way.

The restroom was behind the ballroom. No one guarded the door. I pushed inside—marble, scented oil, heavy soundproofing.

At the sink, I turned on the faucet. The water masked the tiny noises in my earpiece. I pressed the earpiece tighter and listened to the bug.

“Corridor A—add another man at the door. Boss is heading over.”

I raised my eyes to the ventilation panel in the ceiling.

It was my only route.

Next step wasn’t taking more kicks.

It was time to move.