I needed to reach the front foyer.

The main entrance was guarded by two men in dark suits, but they were busy directing guests to their limousines.

As I neared the edge of the dance floor, a shadow fell over the path ahead of me.

I stopped.

Marcus Reed was standing at the base of the grand staircase.

His silver-rimmed glasses reflected the light of the chandelier above.

He was holding a black tablet in his hand, his thumb scrolling rapidly through a screen of green text.

Beside him stood the head of Crane Capital’s private security detail, a tall man with a scarred jaw and a radio earpiece.

Marcus stopped scrolling.

He looked up.

His eyes scanned the crowd, moving past the dancers, past the champagne towers, and landed directly on me.

His face hardened.

He spoke a single word to the security guard beside him.

The guard looked toward me and nodded, his hand moving to his lapel.

I turned back toward the gallery, but the crowd was too thick.

I was trapped between the ballroom and the security team.