POV: Amber Hayes
I'm running before my brain catches up to my body.
The ballroom blurs around me—champagne glasses, designer gowns, shocked faces. My volunteer coat-check vest flaps against my thrift-store dress as I shove through San Francisco's elite like they're mannequins. Someone's elbow catches my ribs. I don't slow down.
"Miss! You can't—" A security guard reaches for me.
I duck under his arm and hit the marble staircase at full speed. My cheap heels weren't made for running. One snaps. I kick both off and keep climbing, barefoot, lungs burning.
10:47 PM. Third-floor balcony. Richard Huang dies in three minutes.
The voices were crystal clear tonight. Every word burned into my memory like acid. Push him during the toast. Make it look like he's drunk. Everyone will believe it.
My legs scream as I take the stairs two at a time. Second floor. Keep going. A couple making out against the wall stares as I barrel past.
I'm either saving a life or having the most public breakdown in San Francisco history.
Please let me be right. Please let me be saving him.
Third floor. The balcony doors are straight ahead, thrown open to the night air. Through them, I see Richard Huang—silver-haired, elegant in his tuxedo, holding a champagne flute. He's alone on the balcony, looking out at the city lights.
No. Not alone.
A woman in a red dress glides through the doors behind him. Beautiful. Poised. Smiling like they're old friends.
She moves closer. Too close. Her hand reaches toward his back.
"STOP!"
The scream tears out of my throat like a living thing.
Everything happens at once.
Richard spins around, startled. His champagne glass flies from his hand, shattering against the balcony railing in an explosion of crystal and gold liquid.
The woman in red jerks backward, eyes wide. For one second, our gazes lock. I see shock. Then calculation. Then something that makes my blood freeze—recognition. She knows who I am.
Security slams into me from behind. My knees hit marble. Strong hands grip my arms, yanking them behind my back.
"Get off her!" A voice I don't recognize.
"Call the police!" Another voice, sharp with authority.
The balcony is suddenly crowded. Richard Huang stares at me like I'm a ghost. The woman in red has melted backward into the gathering crowd, her face now carefully confused, concerned. Playing her part perfectly.
"What's going on?" Richard demands. "Who is this woman?"
"Sir, we don't know. She ran through the ballroom—"
"She was screaming about stopping something—"
"Someone called in a death threat earlier—"
My heart pounds so hard I taste copper. "You were going to die," I gasp out. The security guard's grip on my arms is cutting off circulation. "She was going to push you. I heard—I knew—"
"She's insane," someone mutters.
"Call a psychiatric hold."
"Is she on something?"
The crowd parts. Police officers stride through, radios crackling. Behind them, moving with the kind of authority that makes even cops step aside, is a man in a suit that probably costs more than my entire year's rent.
Dante Cross.
He's taller than I remembered. Six-foot-three of controlled power, ice-blue eyes that could dissect a witness in seconds, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He looks at me with absolutely no expression—which is somehow worse than hatred.
"Ms. Hayes." His voice is smooth as silk and cold as a blade. "How interesting to see you here."
The security guards hesitate. Everyone knows Dante Cross. The Titan of Justice. The prosecutor with a conviction rate that's legendary.
The man whose career I destroyed eight months ago.
"Mr. Cross," the lead officer says. "Do you know this woman?"
"Unfortunately." Dante's eyes never leave mine. "Amber Hayes. Former journalist. Currently unemployed and, if memory serves, banned from most venues in the city for... behavioral issues."
The words hit like slaps. Around us, people whisper. Someone takes a photo. I want to disappear into the marble floor.
"I was trying to stop a murder," I say. My voice shakes but doesn't break. "Richard Huang was going to be pushed off this balcony at 10:47. By her." I try to point at the woman in red, but the security guard's grip won't let me move.
"That's absurd," the woman says. Her voice is honey-sweet, with just the right amount of concern. "I came out here because Richard texted me. We were supposed to meet about the charity auction."
"Julie?" Richard looks confused. "I didn't text you."
Something flickers in the woman's—Julie's—eyes. "You must have. I have the message—" She reaches for her purse.
"Don't move." Dante's command stops everyone. He pulls out his phone, makes a call. "Martinez. Third floor of the Cascade Center. I need you here now." He ends the call and turns to the officers. "Nobody leaves this balcony."
"On what authority?" someone demands.
Dante's smile could freeze vodka. "On the authority of a potential homicide investigation. Richard Huang, when exactly did you come out to this balcony?"
"I... ten minutes ago? Maybe fifteen?"
"Alone?"
"Yes. I needed air. The speeches were getting boring." Richard laughs nervously.
"And you, Ms. Marks—" Dante nods at Julie. "When did you receive this alleged text?"
Julie's fingers are white-knuckled on her purse. "I don't appreciate your tone, Mr. Cross. I'm a respected member of this community. My husband is on the planning committee."
"That's not what I asked."
The tension stretches like a wire about to snap.
Then Julie's phone rings. She jumps. Everyone stares as she fumbles it out with shaking hands, looks at the screen, and goes completely white.
"Answer it," Dante says quietly. "Speaker."
"I don't have to—"
"Answer. It."
Julie's hand trembles as she accepts the call and hits speaker.
A distorted voice fills the balcony: "You failed. Fix it. Now."
The line goes dead.
Julie's face crumbles. Richard staggers backward. The crowd erupts in shocked whispers.
And Dante Cross turns to me with an expression I can't read—something between fury and fascination and a calculation that makes my stomach flip.
"Amber Hayes," he says, so softly only I can hear. "We need to talk. Right now."
Before I can respond, Julie breaks. She lunges—not at Richard, but at the balcony railing. One leg over, eyes wild.
"If I can't finish it, I'll do it myself! They'll kill me anyway!"
Security grabs her. She fights like something possessed, screaming about threats and blackmail and someone listening, always listening.
Dante's phone buzzes. He glances at it. His jaw tightens.
"Officer Martinez just informed me," he says to the crowd, his voice carrying over the chaos, "that Julie Marks has been under investigation for conspiracy to commit murder. This is now an active crime scene. Everyone will need to give statements."
The crowd's whispers become roars. Julie is sobbing. Richard looks like he might faint.
And through it all, Dante Cross stares at me with those ice-blue eyes, and I realize with horrible certainty that my life just got infinitely more complicated.
Because the man I destroyed knows I'm telling the truth.
And he's going to use that knowledge against me.