The air in the Devereaux ballroom was thick with the scent of money and lilies. It was a suffocating combination, one Ben Thorne had become intimately familiar with over the years.
From his position near the French doors leading to the terrace, he surveyed the room, a human statue in a perfectly pressed sheriff’s uniform.
His gaze swept over the glittering assembly of Veridian’s elite—the same faces, the same practiced smiles, the same rot festering beneath the silk and diamonds.
It was a masquerade, and his uniform was just another costume.
He was supposed to be a symbol of security, a visible reminder that the Devereaux’s annual Founder’s Day Gala was protected.
In reality, he was part of the decor, a well-paid guard dog for the very family who held the town’s leash. The thought soured in his gut, a familiar acid reflux of self-loathing.
Then he saw them.
Callie and Nash.
They weren’t dancing. They weren’t mingling. They were a two-person vortex moving with quiet, predatory grace through the oblivious crowd.
Callie, a vision in a sapphire dress that clung to her curves and left her strong shoulders bare, had a champagne flute in her hand, but she hadn’t taken a sip.
Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the room, cataloging exits, noting connections, searching.
Nash was a half-step behind her, a dark, solid presence in a tailored suit that did little to hide the coiled power in his frame. His attention wasn’t on the party; it was on her.
A shield. A shadow.
The way his hand hovered near the small of her back, not touching but promising, sent a hot spike of jealousy through Ben’s chest so potent it almost made him flinch.
It wasn’t just the sight of them together that twisted the knife. It was the purpose.
He saw it in the subtle tilt of her head as she murmured something to Nash, the almost imperceptible nod he gave in return. They were hunting.
And in this gilded cage, there was only one predator worth hunting.
The pieces clicked into place with the force of a gunshot. The podcast. Her relentless questions about Hannah.
The way she’d looked at him with such pity and contempt the last time they’d spoken.
The bait.
The words from their old plan, a ghost from a past he’d tried to bury, screamed in his mind. She was going to corner the killer here, tonight, surrounded by his own family and allies.
She was going to use herself to expose the truth he’d spent a decade helping to cover up.
A cold sweat slicked his palms. This was suicide.
Arrogant, unstable men don’t like being cornered, and the Devereauxs weren’t just men; they were an institution built on violence and silence.
His duty warred with a frantic, primal urge he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. His duty was to this room, to the powerful people who signed his checks and ensured his comfortable, hollow life.
His duty was to maintain the peace, which in Veridian, meant maintaining the status quo.
Arresting a Devereaux on Devereaux land during the biggest social event of the year was not part of that duty. It was an act of career—and possibly literal—suicide.
But then his gaze found Callie again. She laughed at something a portly councilman said, a dazzling, fake smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Those eyes were still searching, still locked on her target. He remembered that same fierce determination from when they were kids, the way she’d fought for every underdog, every lost cause.
He remembered falling in love with that fire, and the profound, gut-wrenching shame of being the one who had tried to extinguish it.
He had chosen the job over her. Over justice. Over himself.
And he had been paying the price every single day since.
Tonight, she was walking into the fire he had failed to put out. And Nash, the man who had taken his place, was walking in with her.
Ben’s choice was no longer about his career or his security. It was about the lingering, stubborn love for Callie that had become the central, aching truth of his life.
He could stand here and protect the powerful, or he could protect her.
It wasn’t a choice at all.
With a final, decisive glance at the dangerous dance Callie and Nash were engaged in, Ben turned on his heel.
He moved with a new purpose, his movements sharp and economical, no longer a decorative guard but a man with a mission.
He slipped through a service corridor, the opulent sounds of the party fading behind him, replaced by the clatter of catering and the hushed gossip of the staff.
He found Lena exactly where he’d expected her to be: tucked away in a small alcove behind the orchestra, a laptop open on a linen-draped serving table.
She was wearing headphones, her brow furrowed in concentration as she monitored audio levels. She looked up as his shadow fell over her, and her expression immediately hardened.
“Sheriff,” she said, her voice dripping with ice. “Shouldn’t you be out there polishing the Devereauxs’ silver?”
“Lena, I don’t have time,” he said, his voice low and urgent. He leaned in, his hands braced on the table, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Where are they going?”
She ripped her headphones off. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me. Not tonight. I know what she’s doing. It’s reckless and insane and it’s going to get her killed.”
The words came out harsher than he intended, rough with a fear so profound it felt like it was clawing its way up his throat.
Lena’s eyes widened, a flicker of her own fear betraying her tough exterior. “She has Nash.”
“Nash is one man. This is the Devereaux family, in their home, surrounded by people who owe them everything. They will close ranks so fast no one will even hear her scream.”
He reached inside his uniform jacket and pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope. He slid it across the table toward her. “This is for you.”
She stared at it, then back at him, her suspicion a palpable wall between them. “What is it? More hush money?”
The barb hit its mark, but he didn’t flinch. He deserved it. “It’s the opposite,” he said, his voice raw. “It’s an insurance policy. For her.”
Lena’s fingers hesitated over the sealed flap. “What’s inside?”
Ben took a deep breath, the air tasting of stale bread and finality. This was it. The moment he torched his entire life.
“It’s my confession. Everything I know about the Devereauxs’ smuggling operation. Names, dates, delivery routes I helped clear. It details every bribe I took, every crime I looked away from. It specifically outlines my role in covering up the initial investigation into Hannah’s death.”
He tapped a lump in the envelope.
“There’s also a flash drive with copies of falsified reports and incriminating financial records I’ve been collecting for years. Enough to burn them, and me, to the ground.”
Lena looked stunned, her mouth slightly agape. The hostility in her eyes was replaced by a dawning, disbelieving understanding.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I was a coward,” he said simply, the admission costing him everything and nothing at all. “I made a choice a long time ago, the wrong choice. I’m not going to let her pay for it.”
He pushed the envelope closer to her.
“If this goes south… if anything happens to me, or to them… you release it. All of it. Send it to the state police, the feds, every major news outlet you can find. Don’t hesitate. Don’t wait for confirmation. If you don’t hear from me by sunrise, you burn this whole rotten town down.”
Tears welled in Lena’s eyes, and she nodded, her hand finally closing over the envelope, clutching it like a sacred text. “Ben…”
“Just keep her safe, Lena. That’s all that matters.” He straightened up, his back already feeling lighter, as if a physical weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The badge on his chest no longer felt like a brand of shame, but a tool he was about to use for its intended purpose, just once, before he threw it away forever.
He gave her a final, grim nod and turned away, melting back into the shadowed corridors of the mansion.
He unclipped the radio from his belt, tuning it to the frequency his deputies were using, then turned the volume down to a barely audible whisper. He didn’t want to be found.
He wasn’t Sheriff Thorne anymore, abandoning his post. He was just Ben, a man who had finally chosen a side.
He emerged back into the party, his eyes immediately finding Callie. She and Nash were moving toward the grand staircase that led to the private wings of the house.
Toward the lion’s den.
Ben slipped a hand inside his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the cold, familiar grip of his service weapon.
He let the crowd swallow him, keeping a dozen yards between them, a ghost in a uniform no one would question. He was her other shadow, the one she didn’t know she had.
He had failed her once, spectacularly.
He would die before he let it happen again.