Page 60 of His Contract Queen

The corridor is dimly lit, the service lighting a low-wattage meant for staff, not guests. It opens into the antechamber behind the stage where black curtains hang heavy and impenetrable to conceal the crew as dinner service continues on the other side.

The stage manager, a thin man drowning in a tuxedo that doesn’t fit him properly, sees me rounding the corner and freezes. I don’t say anything to him as I pass by. He knows exactly who I am. He’d been paid well this afternoon to keep quiet and keep the primary camera fixed on me once I step onto that stage no matter what happens.

I move closer to the curtain where it parts just enough to view the full ballroom. I scan the room, noting press placements and the positioning of military officials at their tables. Their line of sight to the stage is exactly what we planned for.

Perfect.

My father sits at a central table laughing easily with the officials around him. His posture is relaxed, the image of a man at the height of his influence. But the longer I stare, the more I notice the subtle asymmetry in his expression. He favors one side of his face slightly. His smile doesn’t pull quite as evenly as it used to.

Aleksandr never actually told me what he’d done to him after coming back covered in his blood, but I could take a guess. Someone covered in that much blood with none of it being their own painted a vivid enough picture all on its own.

The sight of my father happy makes my blood boil.

It must have been so easy for him to move on after getting rid of me. With my mother long gone and me conveniently out of the way, there were no familial obligations left siphoning off his time or money.

I wonder what he’s told his people regarding my absence. If he even bothered to in the first place. Perhaps a vague comment about me studying overseas, thriving somewhere distant and irrelevant that no one will know enough to press him for more answers. Giving some throwaway explanation delivered with that same polished ease he does with everything else is exactly what I would have expected.

Whatever narrative he spun, it ends tonight.

In my ear, Aleksandr’s voice cuts through the swell of music and conversation via the comms. “He’ll be announced in two minutes. Get ready.”

We haven’t spoken at all since the argument, barely looking in each other’s general direction for more than a few seconds before turning around in the opposite direction. Yet as pathetic as it feels, somehow, hearing him now anchors me in a wayI didn’t know I needed. Even if I don’t see him, I know he’s watching, tracking every variable so I’m not doing this alone.

It steadies me.

Infuriatingly so.

I adjust the earpiece and straighten my shoulders before moving back from the curtain.

The black velvet sways slightly when I move away from it, the heavy fabric smelling slightly dusty like every backstage corner in places does. I find a set of narrow metal stairs that lead to the lower level and take them. The string quartet’s music fades behind me, replaced by the low electrical hum of equipment and soft whir of cooling fans as I make my way to the back where the control room is.

When I reach it, the control room door is already propped open. Exactly as planned, no stagehand behind the console in sight. Aleksandr’s men took care of that thirty minutes ago, doing whatever they needed to make sure this little cubicle would be empty.

I slip inside without hesitation.

The room is crowded with racks of equipment and tangled cables snaking across the floor like veins. The large tower projector that feeds straight to the massive screen behind the podium dominates the far wall. I move toward it quickly, slipping the USB drive from my pocket.

I pop the cap off and trace my fingers along the row of ports on the tower, looking for the one Aleksandr told me I needed to use—the auxiliary input labeledAUX-3, the one that bypassesthe main console and feeds directly to the screen, no password required to go straight to broadcast.

When I find it, a part of me sags in relief.

Not that I doubted Aleksandr’s intel for a second but so far, all is going according to plan.

I push the drive in and stand back, waiting for the soft green light to blink on.

“What are you doing in here?” The voice comes from behind me.

My heart nearly jumps straight out of my chest.

I spin around to find a woman in the doorway, maybe late thirties with her hands planted on hips in the universal stance of someone who’s just caught an intruder. She’s wearing an all-black uniform—crew neck, slacks, practical flats—the standard stagehand attire. The radio clipped to her belt and the laminated badge dangling from her neck tell me everything I need to know.

Control room manager. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here.

Shit.

How the hell did she get back here?

Aleksandr’s men were supposed to have taken care of all this with whatever distractions, bribes, or quiet threats needed to keep this room empty for the five minutes I’d need. The plan was airtight.