February 17, 2030 — Evening
The snow outside whispered against the grand windows of the Caravaggio Estate, a hidden gem tucked into the alpine seclusion not far from the Canadian border. Gilded with crystal chandeliers and warm golden lighting, the ballroom shimmered with opulence. Velvet-clad walls, marble columns, and the soft hum of orchestral music made it feel like something out of a forgotten century—a place where the powerful came not to show their wealth, but to flaunt their influence.
Detective William Vexley stepped through the massive entrance, the collar of his tuxedo tugged slightly by the wind before he handed his coat to a waiting attendant. His posture was confident, clean-shaven, eyes sharp behind a veneer of polite curiosity. He scanned the crowd, careful not to linger too long on anyone's face. This was a night of sharks, and he had to swim like one.
Beside him, Victoria emerged from a different car and different entrance altogether. She blended like vapor into the crowd, her scarlet evening gown falling like a second skin over her. Her raven hair was pinned back in a timeless wave, and her lips were painted a precise, dangerous red. No one stopped her. No one dared.
They had agreed to separate the moment they entered. Two shadows operating in sync but from different corners.
The guest list read like a who's who of hidden power: industrialists from Europe, oil magnates from the Gulf, Silicon Valley barons with political clout, and war profiteers who smiled like philosophers. William spotted Captain Emil Graves within minutes, his towering frame and immaculate white uniform separating him from the suited guests. Graves was mid-laugh, a tumbler of dark whiskey in hand, speaking to a Turkish media mogul and a man with distinct Israeli military tattoos half-hidden beneath his sleeve.
William took a slow breath. Showtime.
He approached with casual ease. Graves noticed him and smiled wide.
"Will! You made it. Come, come. Let me introduce you to a few gentlemen who believe the world is shaped by those bold enough to leave a mark."
"Pleasure," William said, shaking hands, accepting the drinks, absorbing the carefully veiled arrogance.
Each man measured him with a glance. Not with suspicion, but curiosity. William dropped subtle references to current events, praised Captain Graves' sense of duty, and laughed at the right moments. It was like dancing with knives, but he kept rhythm.
Meanwhile, Victoria moved like water through corridors of silk and secrets. She observed every pattern—how the security guards rotated, which rooms remained locked, who was whispering behind closed doors. It was all under control. But then she noticed an opportunity.
The hostess was on the phone, pacing nervously. The scheduled performer had canceled last minute. A small disaster. Victoria took two steps forward and offered a small, unassuming smile.
"I sing," she said.
The woman hesitated. Victoria tilted her head, her voice dipped like velvet.
"Would you rather silence or something unforgettable?"
Within ten minutes, Victoria stood beneath the golden stage lights of the ballroom, microphone in hand, the pianist already briefed. Conversations fell to hush.
And then, she sang.
"If I should stay, I would only be in your way…"
It was Whitney's "I Will Always Love You," but it belonged to her at that moment. Her voice was pure glass and fire—melancholic, full, rising to ceilings she alone could touch. Billionaires turned their heads. Waiters paused mid-step. Even the string section at the back let their instruments fall still.
William turned, his eyes narrowing in recognition. Captain Graves leaned slightly forward, mouth ajar.
When the final note faded like a sigh into the chandeliers, applause erupted like a bomb. Victoria smiled, bowed once, and as the pianist transitioned to the next song, her voice dipped into a tender, her rendition of "Can't Help Falling in Love."
Her eyes locked with Graves' across the room.
The words floated with deliberate elegance.
"Like a river flows, surely to the sea…"
It was no longer just a performance. It was a hunt. And Captain Graves was cornered by something far more dangerous than a bullet.
When she stepped down from the stage, applause following her like petals, Graves was waiting.
"That voice," he said, raising a glass of champagne. "That voice could spark wars."
Victoria let out a laugh that sounded unrehearsed. "And yet it only wins applause."
He offered her his arm. She took it.
"You're new here," he said. "Who are you?"
"Victoria," she replied simply, lifting her glass. "Just a singer with a taste for diplomacy."
"That makes two of us."
They talked with the gentle cadence of flirtation layered over strategic manipulation. Victoria laughed at the right jokes, complimented his choice of cologne, allowed her fingers to graze his hand when reaching for a glass. It was all technique, but it never felt hollow. She made Graves believe he was the one steering the conversation.
They moved to the floor as a waltz began.
William observed from a distance, his stomach tightening slightly. He didn't break character, but a storm passed through his thoughts.
Graves held Victoria's waist with a controlled grip. They moved in synchronicity, bodies barely apart. His hand slipped lower. Her smile never wavered.
"You're full of surprises," he said near her ear.
"You have no idea," she whispered back.
She looked over Graves' shoulder and caught William's eyes across the room. The message was clear.
We're in.
The dance ended, and before stepping away, Graves pulled her close for a kiss. Her lips met his with enough softness to disarm suspicion, and enough silence to ensure he didn't hear the subtle beep of the micro-device she had just planted beneath his lapel.
William turned and rejoined the crowd of elites, ignoring the flicker of something irrational clawing up his chest.
He was here for intel. So was she.