Nell kept her breathing steady as she stepped back into the dimly lit hallway, her heart still hammering from her close call in the office. She adjusted her dress, smoothed down her hair, and forced herself to adopt the relaxed, confident posture of Claire Walker—not a federal agent who had just risked blowing an undercover op.
The party was still in full swing when she reentered the grand lounge, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clink of expensive glassware. She moved through the crowd with calculated ease, her eyes scanning for Callen.
He was exactly where she left him—standing near the bar, exuding the smug arrogance of Dexter Hughes. His lips curled in amusement at something their target, Roman Delacroix, had said, but Nell could see the slight tension in his shoulders.
He was watching her.
Good. He would know something was off.
Nell had barely taken two steps toward him when she noticed it—the way Delacroix's expression had changed. The businessman, so composed just moments ago, was now watching Callen with a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. His gaze flickered to Nell.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Nell's stomach twisted.
Before she could reach Callen, two large men in tailored suits flanked them both.
Mr. Hughes. Miss Walker." One of the men gave an empty smile. "Our employer would like to have a word."
Nell barely had time to exchange a glance with Callen before she felt a strong hand on her elbow, guiding her away from the crowd. Callen—Dexter—let out a light chuckle, playing it cool as always.
"Well, this is unexpected," he drawled, letting them lead him. "You know, if you wanted a private conversation, you could've just asked. No need for the muscle."
The guards said nothing.
They were ushered through a set of double doors and into a sleek, dimly lit side room. A long table stretched through the center, adorned with glasses of half-drunk whiskey and a single laptop, its screen glowing ominously.
Delacroix entered behind them, his easy charm replaced by quiet suspicion.
Nell felt the tension coil in her spine. Their cover wasn't blown—but something was wrong.
Delacroix leaned against the table, studying them.
"I had such high hopes for this business relationship," he mused, swirling his drink. "But then I started wondering—what exactly are you two getting out of this arrangement?"
Callen smirked, slipping effortlessly into his character. "A very lucrative deal, I'd hope. That's why we're here, isn't it?"
Delacroix let out a slow breath, then gestured subtly.
The second bodyguard stepped forward—fast. Before Nell could react, the man grabbed Callen by the lapels of his suit and shoved him against the wall.
Nell tensed, but Callen—Dexter—just laughed.
"Really? This again?" he said, voice smooth despite the pressure. "Let me guess, you think we're working with your bar-owning friend?"
Delacroix tilted his head, considering. "I think it's interesting that, hours after I make a deal with him, his server gets hacked. I also think it's interesting that you and your lovely companion were at his bar that night." His gaze flicked to Nell. "Coincidence?"
Nell forced a smirk. "You're giving me too much credit. I like expensive drinks, not cheap cons."
Delacroix studied her. "Is that so?"
For a moment, it felt like he might believe them.
Then he nodded at his man.
The grip on Callen tightened.
Nell's pulse jumped.
Their cover was hanging by a thread.