“Kate,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, smooth register. “What are you doing here? I thought you were blacklisted from these events.”

“I still have my credentials, Tristan,” I said, keeping my voice soft and vulnerable. “And I needed to see you.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” he said, glancing around the crowded room.

“We do,” I said, stepping closer. “Arthur Sterling knows about the Chelsea warehouse. He knows someone leaked the information to the feds.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine tension appearing in his expression.

“That has nothing to do with me,” he said.

“He thinks it was me,” I whispered, letting my eyes well with tears. “He is going to kill me, Tristan. I need help. I need a way out.”

Tristan looked at me, his gaze scanning my face for any sign of a trap.

But his ego was his greatest weakness, and he loved seeing me beg.

“You always were too fragile for this city, Kate,” he said, a smug, satisfied look returning to his face.

“Please,” I said. “The VIP lounge behind the main gallery. It’s quiet. Just give me five minutes.”