Page 22 of When You're Alone

Before Amelia could speak, he turned to her. She fixed him with a determined stare. He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. It was brief but full of all the unspoken stakesbetween them—her worry, his resolve, and the trust that bound them.

“Be careful,” she whispered, breath warm against his cheek.

“Careful is my middle name,” he replied with forced confidence. He then opened the limo door, stepping out into the crisp evening air. Streetlamps glinted on the wet pavement, a thin drizzle still falling from the murky sky. The building’s facade loomed, crowned by that discreet sign readingThe Monarchin ornate script.

The doorman responding to the arriving vehicle, stepping forward promptly with an umbrella. Finn brushed off the offer—didn’t want to appear too dependent—and strode up the steps. At the entrance, Theodore Crawford hovered, wringing his hands in that familiar display of nerves. He wore a dark suit and tie, his balding head shining under the overhead light, worry etched into the lines of his face.

“Devlin Foster,” Theodore greeted in a hushed tone, using Finn’s alias. He cast a quick glance behind Finn, perhaps searching for signs of Amelia or Rob, but the limo had already melted into the traffic.

“Good evening,” Finn said, carefully adopting a slightly more formal intonation than usual—enough to pass for a posh visitor, he hoped. “I trust all is prepared?”

Theodore forced a thin smile. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Foster. If someone suspects your intentions…”

“Relax, Teddy,” Finn said, clapping a friendly hand on the manager’s arm. “With your help, we’re about to achieve wonders.”

The manager winced at the nickname. "Teddy," indeed, might not be the best approach if they were trying to keep it quiet. But he nodded, letting out a small, resigned sigh. "Yes, well… I'll introduce you as a potential new member here for a trial visit. We'll see if the rumor mill takes hold."

Finn’s mustache twitched with a quick grin. “Perfect. I’ll act the part—wealthy, curious about the club, wanting to sample their famed card games.” He paused, letting a sudden realization weigh on him. “You’re sure none of the real members will ask for deeper verification?”

Theodore shook his head, leaning in so only Finn could hear. “The Monarch accepts new prospects often, especially those with references. I’ll say Lord Davenport recommended you—he’s conveniently traveling abroad. And none of the staff would dare publicly question my word. Just keep your guard up. If our killer is in these halls, you might draw their attention fast.”

Finn patted the man’s shoulder again in reassurance. “I’ll be cautious.”

Behind them, the heavy doors closed with a gentle thud, sealing Finn from the outside world and the watchful eyes of Amelia and Rob. He inhaled, letting the faint cologne of old leather and polished wood fill his senses. Somewhere deeper in the building, a clock chimed the hour in mellow notes.

He pasted on a confident smile and moved into the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. In the back of his mind, he felt the comforting presence of the earpiece in his right ear.Just stay calm, he told himself.Play the part.

He smoothed a hand over his borrowed mustache, aware that each step carried him closer to the unknown. This was a dance on a razor’s edge—a murderer lurking somewhere amid aristocratic elegance, a staff powerless to speak, and a deep hush over The Monarch’s hidden corners. But if that hush could be shattered, if he could draw the killer’s hand into the light, it might just end the bloodshed. That conviction spurred him on, steel in his spine.

“Shall we, Mr. Foster?” Theodore murmured, indicating a corridor that led to the main lounge.

Finn nodded, letting the hush of The Monarch wrap around him. He grinned faintly, the expression hidden under his dark new mustache, and said softly: “Yes, Teddy. The Monarch awaits.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Finn had to remind himself that he wasn’t Finn Wright—at least not tonight. He wasDevlin Foster, a tech entrepreneur from America who had recently bought property in Cornwall and London. And as Theodore Crawford, the Monarch Club’s manager, guided him around the elegantly lit corridors, Finn carefully practiced a calm, confident smile—the smile of a worldly American.

They stepped into the main parlor on the club’s first floor. The space radiated old-world grandeur: wainscoted walls, clusters of leather armchairs near a marble fireplace, and discreet servants gliding around with trays of brandy. Several members—men in tailored suits and women in understated evening dresses—formed small groups, conversing softly.

“Mr Devlin Foster,” Theodore announced in a suitably formal tone, “I’d like you to meet a few of our long-standing members.”

Finn dipped his head politely, heart beating just a touch faster.Don’t slip, don’t slip,he thought, recalling Amelia’s caution in his earpiece earlier.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a jovial face approached, swirling his cognac in a snifter. “Crawford, who’s this gentleman?”

Theodore made the introductions. “Gerald, meet Devlin Foster. Devlin’s recently moved to England—Cornwall, specifically—but he’ll be doing business in London for a while.”

Gerald nodded, shaking Finn’s hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Foster. You don’t see many new members at the Monarch these days, especially not from beyond our shores.”

Finn smiled wryly. “Yes, I suppose I’m an outlier. But it’s said one shouldn’t join a club that would accept them, right?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the small circle. “Ha! Indeed, you do have a point,” Gerald said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re only too glad to have you, though. The Monarch’s been around for centuries, but fresh blood never hurts, especially from the New World.”

Then, a new voice broke in, smooth and faintly amused. “That was a Groucho Marx line, I believe, Mr Foster,” the newcomer said, eyes narrowing in a friendly challenge.

Finn turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. He had a suave aura, half-smile playing on thin lips. Finn suspected the subtle tension in his posture. This was a man used to evaluating people.

With a practiced shrug, Finn replied, “Great minds think alike.”

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