At my billionaire employer’s engagement dinner, his six-year-old daughter crawled under a table, dug her tiny fingers into my wrist, and whispered the first words she had spoken in eleven months: “Please don’t let Daddy marry her.” Then she unfolded a crayon drawing—and I saw his fiancée standing beside her mother’s hospital bed.

The Whitmore estate was transformed into a fairy-tale palace for the annual Winter Gala. Thousands of white orchids draped from the ceilings, and ice sculptures carved in the shape of mythical beasts slowly melted under the warmth of hundreds of expensive chandeliers.

I adjusted the collar of my black catering uniform, pulling the stiff fabric up to hide the nervous sweat on my neck. My hair was dyed a dark brunette, tucked tightly under a server’s cap, and heavy makeup altered the contours of my face. I carried a silver tray loaded with crystal flutes of champagne, my hands steady only through sheer force of will.

"Keep moving, girl," the head chef barked as I lingered near the grand ballroom entrance.

I nodded, stepping into the sea of silk, diamonds, and tuxedos.

Through the crowd, I saw them. Grant Whitmore stood at the center of the room, looking every bit the tech titan—stern, handsome, but with deep shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before. Beside him, draped in an emerald silk gown that cost more than my annual salary, was Vanessa Hale. She was radiant, laughing charmingly at a joke made by a foreign diplomat, her hand resting possessively on Grant's arm.

My blood boiled, but I forced my eyes away. I had a job to do.

I slipped past the security detail near the main staircase, utilizing a narrow servant’s pantry that led directly to the upper residential wing. The mansion was buzzing with staff, which made it easier to blend in, but the third floor—where Grant’s private study was located—was strictly off-limits.

I reached the heavy mahogany door of the study. My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain the security guards downstairs could hear it. I pulled out a small electronic cloning device Marcus had given me. It was designed to mimic the RFID signals of the staff badges, but to bypass Grant’s study, I needed his personal biometric signature or the physical master code.

I stared at the keypad. 0998#1*. The bypass code from the night of Helena's death.

With trembling fingers, I pressed the keys.

Click.

The heavy lock disengaged. I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. The study was dark, smelling of leather and expensive scotch. I hurried to the desk, my eyes scanning the sleek, minimalist setup. Marcus had told me the physical backup server was hidden behind the false bookcase on the western wall.

I found the release latch, and a section of the wall swung open to reveal a glowing rack of server drives. I located the drive labeled Q4 - 2024 and began plugging in the high-speed extraction device.

10%... 30%... 50%...

Suddenly, the door handle turned.

I froze. There was nowhere to hide in the open room. I scrambled behind the heavy velvet curtains just as the door swung open and the lights flickered on.

"I told you, Grant, we need to finalize the prenuptial agreement tonight," Vanessa’s sharp, commanding voice rang out. "Before the press starts asking more questions about your late wife's estate."

"Not tonight, Vanessa," Grant’s voice sounded exhausted, heavy with a grief he only showed when the cameras were off. "This gala is for Helena's foundation. Can we at least respect her memory for one evening?"

"Her memory?" Vanessa scoffed, her heels clicking across the hardwood floor, coming terrifyingly close to my curtain. "Helena is gone, Grant. I am the one standing beside you now. I am the one who secured the merger with Hale Industries. Don't play the grieving widower with me. You know exactly what it took to get us here."

My breath hitched. What it took to get us here.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Grant asked, his tone suddenly hardening.

"It means," Vanessa said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low purr, "that you should remember who kept your secrets when the board wanted to oust you. Now, sign the papers, or I might start remembering things about Helena's final night that the police would find very interesting."

I could hear the tension in the room, thick enough to cut with a knife. Vanessa was blackmailing him. But did Grant actually know she had killed Helena, or was she bluffing?

Before Grant could answer, his phone rang. He sighed, answering it. "Yes?... I'll be right down." He hung up and looked at Vanessa. "The governor has arrived. We're expected on the main stage. We'll finish this later."

The lights clicked off, and the door closed.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I stumbled out from behind the curtain. The extraction device beeped softly in the dark.