Chapter 1
Beth
The worst decision I made that day was the shoes — the second worst was opening that door.
In my defence, I was already late, already flustered, and holding a baby shower gift shaped like a duck. None of which usually leads to firearms, but apparently London had other plans for me.
I’d just finished my shift at the shop — the kind of lifestyle homeware place where everything is beige, linen, or described asartisandespite being mass-produced. I spend my days fluffing cushions, lining up ceramic pots, and telling people that yes, the £38 candle really does smell like a Mediterranean summer and no, I don’t know why it costs that much either.
I like it, though.I like making things feel nice.
By the time I lock up, my feet ache and my hands smell faintly of wax and eucalyptus. I sling my bag over one shoulder and hurry into the evening, London already doing that blue-grey thing it does when it can’t decide whether it’s going to rain.
I’m late. Obviously.
The invitation is creased in my bag from being checked too many times, and I rehearse my apology as I walk.Sorry I’m late, work ran over.Sorry I’m late, trains.Sorry I’m late, I exist.
The Ritz feels like another world.
Everything is quiet in a way that makes you lower your voice without realising you’ve done it. Gold trim. Thick carpets. Flowers that probably cost more than my rent. I hesitate for half a second before stepping inside, suddenly very aware that my coat is last season and my shoes were, once again, a mistake.
“Hi,” I say to reception, smiling because smiling is my default setting. “I’m here for a baby shower? Private event.”
The receptionist checks the list and nods. “Yes. Down the hallway to your left.”
Relief floods me.
“Thank you.”
I follow the corridor, heels muffled by carpet, passing paintings I don’t recognise but feel like I should. A discreet sign on the wall readsPRIVATE EVENT. I nod to myself like that settles it.
Right place.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and dig inside for my perfume. It’s cheap, but I love it. One spray on my wrist, one on my neck — a little moment of bravery — then back into the bag.
I’ve never stepped foot somewhere this fancy.
Well. That’s a lie.
I once worked a trial week at a five-star restaurant. Lasted five days. Apparently I wastoo chattyto be a waitress. Turns out customers don’t want opinions with their wine.
I reach the door at the end of the hallway, take a breath, and push it open.
“Aunt Beth is here!”
The words leave my mouth before my brain can stop them.
They land wrong.
There are no balloons.No pastel decorations.No squeals or clinking glasses.
There are five men.
All in dark suits. Not flashy. Not loud. Just… precise. They sit around a long table, evenly spaced, like they’ve been placed there deliberately. On the table in front of them are guns — not scattered, not casual — laid out neatly, like paperwork.
Behind them, a screen glows with surveillance footage and timestamps.
Everything goes quiet.
“Oh,” I say.
My stomach drops.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, already stepping back. “I’ve definitely got the wrong room, I don’t know how I— I’ll just—”
The door closes behind me.
Not slammed.
Just closed.
One of the men tilts his head.
Then another.
Then all of them do.
In sync.
“Bag,” one of them says.
I blink. “Well— no.”
A pause.
“No?” he repeats.
“I mean— it’s just my bag,” I say weakly, tightening my grip on the strap. “I’ve got a gift and—”
“Bag.”
My fingers loosen before I fully agree with the decision. I slide it off my shoulder and place it carefully on the table, like if I’m gentle enough, this might all rewind.
They empty it in silence.
My purse.My phone.Lip balm.Keys.A receipt I forgot to throw away.
The baby shower gift last.
Another man types into a laptop. The sound feels far too loud.
“Bethany Foster,” he reads.
My heart stutters. “Yes.”
“Retail assistant. Lifestyle homeware store.”
“That’s right.”
“Lives above a flower shop.”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“No criminal record.”
Thank God.
“No significant debt.”
Relief.
“No significant savings either.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
Someone almost smiles.
The man at the head of the table watches me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says.
Relief hits me so hard it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
“Thank you.”
“But you can’t leave yet.”
My chest tightens.
“Oh,” I say quietly. “Okay.”
The door stays closed.
My bag sits open on the table, my entire life laid out between guns and surveillance screens.
And I have the sinking feeling that the shoes are no longer the worst part of this story.
“I’m really sorry for butting in on whatever meeting you’re having,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel personal. “I genuinely didn’t mean to. And if you’d just let me go now, I promise this will never come up again. Ever.”
No one answers.
The man at the head of the table looks at me like I’ve said something mildly interesting.
“Why are you apologising?” he asks.
The question throws me.
“I—” I pause. “I’m English?”
One of the men scoffs. A short, surprised sound, like it escaped before he could stop it.
Relief flutters in my chest before I squash it. This is not banter. This is not normal.
“I didn’t mean to come in here,” I add quickly. “I’m meant to be at a baby shower.”
I reach for the gift bag before I fully think it through. My fingers close around the tissue paper and I pull out the toy duck — yellow, soft, aggressively cheerful.
I hold it up like evidence.
“This,” I say. “Which I realise sounds made up, but I promise it’s not.”
Still nothing.
“Before you judge,” I continue, words tumbling now, “I know it’s a bit weird for a baby shower, like why a duck, of all things, but the mum — she’s my best friend — she has this thing about ducks. Proper thing. Loves them. And actually it’s a funny story because when she told me she was pregnant, we were at this pond—”
I trail off.
Five men.Five blank expressions.
Not confused.Not amused.Just… watching.
I clear my throat.
“Anyway,” I say, gesturing vaguely with the duck, “that’s where ducks live. Ponds. So. Yes.”
I slide the duck back into the bag, heat crawling up my neck.
“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I finish, pushing my chair back slightly. “So I’ll just—”
“Stay where you are.”
The voice is deep. Calm. Slightly posh. The kind of voice that doesn’t expect to be disobeyed because it never is.
I freeze.
My eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t raised his voice. Hasn’t moved. He’s still seated at the head of the table, hands folded, posture relaxed. He looks like someone who belongs in rooms like this. Someone who decides how situations end.
I slowly sit back down.
That’s when I really look at the others.
Four men, all dressed sharply. Dark suits. Crisp shirts. No unnecessary movement. One leans back slightly, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Another sits forward, elbows on the table, eyes sharp and assessing. One looks bored in a way that feels dangerous. The last watches everything without blinking, like he’s memorising it.
They all look expensive.
They all look capable.
And I am painfully aware that I am holding a novelty duck in a room full of firearms.
No one tells me what happens next.
Which somehow feels worse than if they had.
So I sit there, hands folded in my lap, heart thudding, trying very hard not to apologise again.
you chose tonight to wander into a private room at The Ritz.”
“I didn’t choose it,” I say quickly. “I tripped into it. Metaphorically. Physically I was quite steady.”
That earns me another look.
Then — finally — something shifts.
Not warmth. Not kindness.
Decision.
“You’re not leaving yet,” he says.
My heart stutters.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
The word comes out automatically, like agreeing might make it less terrifying.
He gestures toward the door without looking at it.
“You’ll wait.”
I nod. Again. Too fast.
“Can I—” I stop myself. “No. Sorry.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then nods once to one of the others.
“Get her some water.”
I blink. “You don’t have to—”
A glass appears in front of me anyway.
I wrap my hands around it, grateful for something to do with them.
They turn back to their screens. Their quiet conversations resume in low voices that don’t include me. I sit there, heart racing, trying not to listen and failing spectacularly.
Whatever this is, it’s bigger than me.
And I’m very aware that I’m only still in this chair because someone has decided — for now — that I’m harmless.
That decision can change.
I take a careful sip of water.
And wait.
The man at the head of the table studies me for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether I’m finished being a problem.
“Do you have anything else to say?” he asks.
The room stills.
All eyes shift to me.
I panic.
“Uh—” I say, because my brain has chosen now to completely power down. “Yes. Actually. I’m wearing this blue dress because I think the baby’s a boy.”
Silence.
I gesture down at myself, just in case that helps.
“I know they haven’t said yet,” I add quickly. “But I’ve got a feeling. And also I don’t really suit pink.”
No one reacts.
Not a blink. Not a twitch.
The man exhales slowly through his nose.
“Do you have anything to say,” he repeats, voice calm, measured, faintly dangerous, “that is of use to me.”
“Oh,” I say.
Right.
I nod once, decisive.
“No,” I say honestly. “No, I don’t think so.”
Another pause.
Somewhere to my left, someone shifts in their chair like they’re fighting a laugh and losing.
I clasp my hands together tightly in my lap and add, because apparently I can’t help myself:
“But if I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
The man’s mouth tightens.
Not quite a smile.
Not quite not.
No one speaks for a moment after that.
The silence isn’t awkward — it’s deliberate. Like they’re all waiting for a cue I’m not privy to.
The man at the head of the table watches me for a few seconds longer, eyes steady, unreadable. Then he nods once, almost to himself.
“Alright,” he says.
That’s it.
No explanation. No reassurance. No dramatic declaration.
One of the others stands and opens the door behind me.
I don’t move straight away, because I’m suddenly very aware thatalrightcould mean several different things in a room like this.
“Can I… go?” I ask carefully.
“Yes,” he says. “You can.”
I stand slowly, resisting the urge to apologise again. I sling my bag over my shoulder, aware of how loud the strap sounds in the quiet room.
As I pass him, I hesitate — not because I want to, but because my body seems determined to betray me one last time.
“I won’t say anything,” I tell him. “About any of this.”
“I know,” he replies.
I don’t know why that unsettles me more than anything else he’s said.
The door closes behind me, softer than I expect.
I stand in the hallway for a second, staring at the patterned carpet like it might explain what just happened.
Then I straighten my shoulders, take a breath, and walk back toward the noise and colour and balloons and normal life.
But with every step, one thought presses heavier against my ribs.
People like that don’t let accidents walk away.
And if that room was a mistake—
Then I have the feeling I’ve just become one too.
