The gala was still in full bloom when Victoria slipped her arm through Captain Emil Graves', her eyes locked with his as they glided past clusters of billionaires and political figures wrapped in velvet secrecy. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden shimmer across the marble floor, and her crimson dress shimmered in their glow like a moving flame. She played her part flawlessly—the liaison, mysterious and beautiful, whose origin no one dared question and whose purpose was ever fluid.
"Come," Graves murmured, his voice a low rumble in her ear, tinged with drink and the subtle confidence of a man who thought he was in control. "There are people you need to meet."
Victoria allowed herself a pleased smile as he led her into a nearby alcove draped in thick burgundy curtains. The chatter dimmed as they entered a side salon where select guests gathered around a long, black glass table with expensive whiskey and aged cigars. Faces turned. Curious eyes examined her like an acquisition. Victoria gave a calculated laugh, graceful and light, and Graves introduced her.
"Gentlemen, this is Victoria. One of our quiet friends from overseas. She has an interest in our endeavors."
They exchanged names she knew were aliases, but she memorized their faces. A Turkish defense magnate. A Belgian biotech executive. A Saudi prince's cousin. They smiled and welcomed her. She sipped champagne, asked the right questions—"What kind of logistics does a private transfer require?" and "Are the agents traceable internationally?"—and they answered like it was foreplay. She feigned awe. Flirted delicately. Let her hand linger longer than necessary on a wrist or shoulder. Information flowed easily.
Across the room, in a darker corner just beneath the rising curve of a staircase, Detective William Vexley stood with a tumbler in hand, unmoving except for the quiet flick of a pen inside a leather notebook. He blended into the shadows, eyes constantly moving. He wasn't drinking. Every detail was cataloged—the color of the ties, the sequence of nods, the coded terms they used when discussing weapon transfers or regional destabilization.
Victoria made her next move.
She turned to Graves and touched his lapel. "Is there a quieter place we can talk? I think I have something you might be interested in."
Graves grinned, his guard slowly falling. "I thought you might. Come."
They disappeared into one of the private corridors on the second floor, winding past antique sculptures and guarded doors. Graves entered a chamber of walnut walls and subtle lighting, the kind of room used for confidential negotiations or indulgent pleasures. It smelled faintly of leather and old brandy.
He closed the door behind them.
Victoria walked toward the couch, slowly removing her gloves, placing them neatly on a side table. Graves unbuttoned his jacket and poured two glasses of dark liquor.
"You were magnificent out there," he said. "Your voice… hypnotic."
"I'm glad it moved you," she replied, sitting, legs crossed elegantly.
"More than moved," he said, placing the glass in her hand. "You're unlike the rest. You understand power."
Victoria tilted her head. "Tell me what I should understand."
Graves took the bait.
He began with light details. Partnerships, false charities used to transport materials, contracts hidden under shell corporations. Then he leaned in, whispering the heart of their schemes: the acquisition of advanced bioweapons from rogue labs, the redirection of missile technologies via proxies, the support of Israel in the Middle Eastern standoff as a profitable investment. He described it all like a man boasting about his yacht collection.
Victoria listened, her hand lightly resting on his knee.
Then, like falling dominoes, the room shifted. He moved in. They kissed. Her hands tangled in his hair, guiding him downward. She whispered questions between touches, and he, disarmed, answered like a puppet with cut strings.
But as soon as she felt the absence of a weapon on his body and heard the last piece she needed—a confirmation of a planned chemical release in northern Tehran—she changed.
In one blinding moment, her hand moved.
With fluid precision, she flipped him backward across the couch and mounted his chest, her knees pinning his arms. A thin blade, identical to the one used on Colonel Halvern, pressed just beneath his jaw. His pupils flared.
"Wha—what are you doing?" he stammered.
Victoria's eyes were steel.
"Finishing the duet," she replied calmly.
She pressed a point on her bracelet. The room's security feed looped.
Graves struggled. Victoria jabbed a pressure point in his wrist, disabling his right arm. Then another strike to his solar plexus. The air rushed from his lungs.
"Talk," she ordered. "Everything. Names. Shipments. Backchannels. Where. When."
"I won't tell you anything, bitch"
"You already did"
"I can't… they'll kill me—"
"You're not in a position to bargain."
He talked.
Sweat poured as she interrogated him. No blood, no obvious wounds—her technique was immaculate. Psychological pressure. Pain in just the right amount. Graves confessed shipment coordinates, funding routes, meetings to come. Victoria recorded every second through her bracelet.
Then, her earpiece crackled.
William.
"Victoria," he said quietly, breath clipped. "I think I have a tail. Someone's following me. Tall. Scarred face. Grey suit."
Victoria turned her head slightly.
"Get to the emergency corridor. Room E-17. Don't engage. I'll handle this."
Graves coughed beneath her, dazed and weak.
"You... you set me up..."
Victoria lowered her face until her lips brushed his ear.
"No, Captain. You set yourself up. You thought you were invincible. But all kings bleed."
She struck the final nerve cluster. Graves breathed his last.
Then, without another word, she slipped back into her heels, fixed her dress in a practiced flick, and walked out of the room like nothing had happened.
As she melted into the crowd again, the gala's music swelled.
The web was closing. And she had just snared its most dangerous spider