Zoe Barnes felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a panther's enclosure.
She wasn't on the guest list. She wasn't even on the press list. She was wearing a black server's uniform she'd bribed a disgruntled catering staffer fifty bucks for in a back alley. The dress was two sizes too big, and the cheap shoes were already murdering her feet.
In her pocket, her phone felt like a rock. Her only weapon.
She grabbed a tray of champagne flutes, the weight unfamiliar and clumsy in her hands. She had one job: blend in. One wrong move, one suspicious glance from the stone-faced security guards, and she'd be thrown out. Possibly arrested. Her career was already on life support; this would be pulling the plug.
Her own tense, focused reflection stared back at her from the polished silver of the champagne tray. She looked like a ghost, haunting a party she had no right to be at.
The gallery was a chaotic sea of tuxedos and jewels, the air thick with the smell of money and perfume. Everyone here was someone. A senator laughed too loudly over there. A tech CEO held court by the bar. It was a swamp, and she was wading through it.
She moved through the crowd, her nerves screaming. "Champagne?" she'd mumble, her voice barely a whisper. It was the perfect cover. It allowed her to get close, to listen, to scan the faces.
It felt impossible. She was looking for a phantom in a house of mirrors.
Then she started hearing the whispers. Little snippets of conversation, all pointing in one direction.
"...did you see her? Simply appeared out of thin air."
"Someone said her name is Cleo. Just Cleo. Can you imagine the arrogance?"
"...and Vance looks like she's seen a ghost…"
Cleo.
The name hit her like a jolt of electricity. It was theatrical. Absurd. And it fit the woman from the video perfectly. The buzz was all about one person. She was close.
Following the direction of the whispers, Zoe saw her. And her breath caught in her throat.
The grainy video had been a pale shadow of the real thing. The woman—Cleo—was magnetic. She was standing with Meredith Vance, the Ice Queen herself, but she made Vance look like a servant. She radiated a power so absolute it made everyone else in the room look like a pale imitation.
This was it. The connection. The ghost from the hotel, the owner of Serapis Holdings, was here, targeting the most powerful lobbyist in the city. Zoe's gut screamed. This was the story of a lifetime.
She needed proof.
She set her tray down on a nearby table, her hands trembling slightly. Her hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers closing around the cool metal of her phone. She angled her body, pretending to be picking up empty glasses from a nearby ledge.
She needed a clear shot. Just one picture. One piece of hard evidence to take back to Frank.
She had it. A clear line of sight. Cleo and Vance were close, their heads nearly touching in intense conversation. It looked like a conspiracy. It felt like a conspiracy.
She raised her phone, keeping it low, shielded by her body. The camera app was open. The small screen showed the two most powerful women in the room, one ancient and predatory, the other modern and mesmerized.
Her thumb hovered over the button.
A hand, impossibly fast, closed gently but firmly over hers, stopping the motion. A man was suddenly standing beside her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. He was handsome, dressed in a tuxedo that was worth more than her car, and could have been any other guest.
But his eyes were as cold and hard as polished steel.
"You're a long way from the newsroom, Ms. Barnes."
His voice was a quiet, deadly whisper meant only for her. Zoe froze. The blood drained from her face.
He knows my name.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. This confirmed everything. They weren't just powerful; they were prepared. They knew she was a threat. They wiped her files. And now they knew she was here, in this room.
The man wasn't holding her hand; he was caging it. "This is a private event," he continued, his voice perfectly calm. "Taking pictures of the guests is frowned upon."
She looked from his cold eyes to the scene across the room. Cleo was now looking directly at them. At her. There was no surprise in the woman's gaze. Only a look of cold, imperious fury, as if she were a queen watching a peasant who had dared to track mud into her throne room.
The man—the general to her queen—gave her hand a slight, warning squeeze. He hadn't exposed her. He hadn't called security. He was showing her that he could, at any moment.
He held her gaze for one more terrifying second, a silent promise of consequences, before releasing her hand. He gave a polite, almost mocking nod and melted back into the crowd, a ghost in his own right.
He hadn't taken her phone. He'd just delivered a message: We see you.
And as her heart hammered against her ribs, her own silent message back was just as clear: Good. Because I see you, too.