Everything snaps into place with terrifying efficiency, but I barely register any of it. All I see is Ollie.
He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders squared, posture deceptively calm. His suit jacket is damp on one side from the drink that got thrown. There’s a faint smear on his cheekbone where liquid dried unevenly.
And he’s alive.
I cross the room in three strides and grab his arms. “Hey,” I say, too hard, too fast. “Hey—are you hurt?”
He blinks at me like he’s coming back from somewhere far away. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m fine. I’m?—”
I scan him anyway. His face. His hands. His chest. I don’t care who’s watching. “I saw the knife,” I snap, heart still hammering like it’s trying to escape my rib cage. “I saw where she was aiming.”
His mouth opens, then closes. His throat works. “I know.”
My stomach twists violently. For one frozen second back there—just one—I was certain this was it. That I was about to watch something irreversible happen because of me. Because of who I am. Because of the life I chose that put a target on people I love.
I rake a hand through my hair, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ.”
Ollie’s hands come up, resting lightly on my forearms. It’s grounding and intentional.
“I’m okay,” he says again, quieter this time. “I promise.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.
Behind us, the door cracks open and another security guard slips inside. He murmurs to Vinny, who nods once, then turns toward us.
“Room’s secure,” he says. “Police are on their way. We’ll move you once they’re ready.”
I swallow. “She?—”
“In custody,” Vinny says. “Disarmed. No one else involved.”
A fraction of the pressure eases in my chest, but it doesn’t go away.
Miles moves away from the corner of the room, phone still pressed to his ear. His expression is the same one he wears when plans derail and someone needs to quietly reroute the entire night without panic.
“Yeah,” he says. “No injuries. Knife, yes. Contained. Police are handling it.”
He listens, eyes tracking the room on instinct. His gaze flicks—quick, sharp—to me, then to Ollie, then back to the wall.
“No,” he adds evenly. “Nothing else.”
There’s a beat. Another.
“Yeah. I’ll call you back once we’re clear.”
He ends the call and pockets his phone. “Rachael’s looped in,” he says. “She’s drafting statements in case this leaks.”
I nod, thinking back to his words. I’m pretty surenothing elsemeans exactly what I think it does.
He didn’t say Oliver Marshall kissed me in a room full of people. Didn’t say I kissed him back. Didn’t say the world almost tilted off its axis.
Miles’s gaze meets mine again, steady and knowing. “You good?”
I nod once more.
Before he can press, the door opens again and two police officers step inside, expressions professional and neutral. One of them is already holding a notepad.
“Mr. Ortiz?” the taller one asks.
