The chandelier above her head shimmered like shattered glass, catching on every turn of the music and laughter. Elira Vale stood still amidst the chaos of silk gowns and clinking champagne glasses, her gaze locked on one man who hadn't smiled once since the evening began.
Soren Moreaux.
He was exactly as the files had described—tall, composed, terrifyingly elegant. But no photograph had captured the aura of him. The chilling stillness. The way his presence drained color from the room and made the air a little sharper.
She'd memorized his face for weeks, every angle, every scar. But now, as he moved through the sea of people, something primal pulsed through her.
Not fear.
Something far more dangerous.
"You're staring," murmured the voice in her earpiece—Talon, her handler.
Elira didn't blink. "He's here. Just entered. He looks..."
"Like a goddamn phantom in a tux. We know. Just stick to the plan."
Right. The plan.
Get in. Map the route to his private chambers. Plant the micro-device. Get out. No direct contact. No improvisation.
But plans never survive proximity to men like Soren Moreaux.
Her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass as he moved closer. His eyes, storm-gray and unreadable, flicked briefly to her.
Only a second.
But it was a collision.
A flicker of recognition passed through them.
Or maybe just curiosity.
Either way, her pulse stumbled.
"He looked at me," she whispered.
"You're wearing a red dress, Elira. That was the point. He notices what bleeds."
She exhaled slowly and moved, letting the crowd swallow her. The mansion was sprawling, baroque, and suffocatingly extravagant. Gold-trimmed everything. Murals of saints and demons on the ceiling.
Of course he lived in a palace of contradictions.
She passed the main staircase, descending toward the less-populated west wing. Her heels tapped like a countdown.
Behind her, she could feel the heat of his gaze again.
No.
Not could.
Did.
She turned the corner and found the corridor empty. One more hallway. Then the study. The blueprints said it had a vault built into the floor—that was her real target. Hidden files. Transactions. Names.
She reached into her clutch, fingertips brushing the device. Almost there.
"Leaving so soon?"
His voice was velvet and ruin.
Elira froze.
She turned, slow and composed, to find Soren Moreaux leaning against the wall just behind her.
He hadn't made a sound.
His bow tie was loosened, collar open. Like he had shed a mask and decided she was worth showing something raw to.
"I got bored," she said, flashing a neutral smile.
"You looked like you were hunting something."
She tilted her head. "A good cocktail."
He stepped closer.
"You don't belong here," he said, eyes raking over her gown, her posture, her false ease. "You're too poised. Too alert. Everyone else in that room is pretending. You're calculating."
Her lips curved. "So are you."
He smiled.
God, it was worse than his stillness.
It was lethal.
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm not pretending. This is my world. I just don't enjoy parties."
"Then why throw one?"
"To see who shows up."
They stood like that, in the silence between breaths.
Then he nodded to her hand. "Your glass is empty."
"So it is."
He took it from her gently, like a man used to getting what he wants without ever raising his voice. "Let me get you another."
"And leave me alone in your hallways?"
He paused.
Then smiled again.
"You're not afraid of being alone, Elira."
Her blood iced.
She hadn't told him her name.
He turned and walked away without another word, her empty glass in hand. The sound of his shoes on marble echoed like gunshots.
"Talon," she whispered. "He knows. He said my name."
Static.
Then: "Abort. Get out now. Do not engage. I repeat—"
She was already moving.
But the hallway behind her was no longer empty.
Two men in tailored black stepped into view. Guards.
She turned on her heel, walked calmly, then faster. Another corner. Another hall.
Another man.
She ran.
Only once she'd reached the garden door did she pause, gasping for air. The cold night bit into her skin.
"He shouldn't have known," she whispered to herself.
But Soren Moreaux always knew.
He just didn't always let you live long enough to realize it.