"Room service," I called, pushing the cart as the suite door cracked open. Ezra Best's expression didn't change. He studied the cart like it was contraband and said, "Ms. Zeng, you're not on the guest list." "I brought dinner," I said, keeping my voice steady. "And a paperwork packet. For Mr. Kuhn." He stepped in front of the threshold, polite and square-jawed. "Orlando won't—" "Tell him it's from me," I cut in. My fingers tightened on the handle. The cart rattled; a photographer's camera could catch that sound and turn it into a headline. I refused to let my life be a headline today. Ezra stared. "This is highly irregular." "It's also the only way I get this close," I said. I didn't explain the rest. Plans sound fragile when you say them out loud. He sighed. "I'll have to escort you out." "Or you'll tell him I was here and he laughs." I rolled the cart forward. The plush carpet swallowed the wheels. Ezra raised a hand. The corridor was silent except for our voices. A hotel door opened down the hall and a maid glanced at us. Someone might be watching. That was the point. "Ms. Zeng," Ezra said, voice low now. "You're risking a lot." "I know what risk looks like," I said. "I also know when a role is being handed to the safe choice." He looked at me the way people look at