Everything used to be simple. After my first mission, the path was clear—earn trust, climb higher, work my way up until I had influence. And now, that opportunity is right in front of me.
But that isn’t what I want.
I want Estella. Her pain, her joy, her feral moods, her spiraling mind, her hunger. She consumes every moment of my existence now. The connection between us is beyond human definition, deeper than anything rational minds could ever sustain.
I want to keep devouring her, feeding the inferno that roars between us. I want to pour fuel on the wildfire we created, let it chew through every boundary, every rule, every person foolish enough to stand in our way.
We crossed the line long ago, and neither of us cares. That is the privilege of people like us—our moral compasses cracked long before we met. Good and bad aren’t concepts we can use oneach other. There is only the question of how much of each other we can consume, and how many bodies will burn in the fallout.
A long, private driveway curves upward through immaculate grounds. Glossy black sedans and champagne-toned SUVs glide ahead of us in a slow-moving procession, their tires whispering across marble-chip gravel. Stone lions guard the entrance stairs, their faces lit from below, their expressions carved in dramatic shadow. The mansion’s façade is pale limestone, smooth as folded silk, its tall windows shining like slabs of liquid gold.
I draw her closer, hoping to siphon away even a fraction of her fear. “We won’t stay long,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss against her temple. Her breath shudders as she nods, though I know this isn’t the reassurance she hoped for.
Earlier, we both tried to imagine a life where we worked apart—in different cities, different countries, different targets. The fantasy lasted barely a minute.
We both already knew the truth.
We couldn’t.
And since this is officially our last mission together, the silence between us swells until it feels like its own living organism. Too much is happening beneath the surface for words. Tense quiet is the only thing that keeps us from coming apart at the seams.
We step inside, our eyes adjusting behind the masks that shield half our faces. The ceilings soar so high the chandeliers look weightless, suspended in an endless vertical void. Warm light pours from them in golden waves, washing over the guests and giving the entire room a flattering, cinematic glow.
The main hall churns like a glittering ocean of wealth: black tuxedos cut with precise tailoring, couture gowns in reflective fabrics that flash like molten metal, champagne flutes lifted with casual arrogance. Every laugh is curated, every smile rehearsed. When I inhale, the air is thick with perfumes mingled withthe cold, clean scent of refrigerated flowers and a faint halo of alcohol.
“This place smells like death,” Estella murmurs, slipping a manufactured smile to the passing guests.
She’s right. Death doesn’t always reek of rot or iron. Sometimes it smells like money—fresh bills, old power, inherited influence. These people are the gods of quiet catastrophes; their decisions determine who vanishes, who rises, who falls off the map entirely. Anyone can disappear with a single whispered command.
And with pawns like Estella and me, they keep their hands clean behind a curtain of beauty and curated joy.
Servers drift through the crowd like practiced phantoms, balancing trays of amuse-bouche that resemble sculptures more than food—stacks of caviar, micro-herb arrangements, individual pomegranate seeds perched like jewels on plates as thin as contact lenses. Bite-sized luxuries, meant to dissolve before you even grasp the flavor.
Rich people shit.
The floor beneath us is polished stone, so glossy it captures moving shadows like ink pooling over marble. A string quartet performs in the corner, but their music is nearly swallowed by the low hum of transactional conversation: stock manipulation disguised as friendly advice, bribes disguised as charity, envy disguised as admiration.
My gaze sweeps across the room, cataloging faces, movements, and exits. Most people wear masks, even though they obviously recognize each other. Another layer of theater in a room built on performance.
Our target is Theodore Brown—an informant for The Order—just like Jason predicted. I’d been on the phone with him earlier, right before Estella finished getting ready. No point in dodging the truth: another man from The Order needs to be erased, andwhat comes after that is a path so murky I can barely see its shape.
“There he is,” Estella whispers, her fingers tightening around the sleeve of my blazer. I turn my head, letting my focus narrow on the far-right corner of the room.
Theodore is a man in his forties with a smile so blinding it feels weaponized—polished veneers flashing like white-hot glass beneath the chandeliers. His face is overfilled with Botox, the skin stretched so tightly that every grin looks like it might snap the tendons beneath. When he laughs, not a single crease moves. It’s as if the emotion is happening somewhere outside his body, projected onto a mask that can’t quite keep up.
He’s already flushed, already tipsy, a drink dangling from his fingers. We watch him schmooze and glide from group to group, offering those plastic smiles, touching elbows, murmuring promises he’ll never keep. Then, with a final nod to his circle, he breaks away—filling his glass again before drifting toward the far corner of the room. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe like he owns oxygen itself, scanning the crowd with sharp, predatory greed.
Estella leans closer, her grip still anchored to my blazer. Her fingers dig in with a quiet desperation, like she believes that if she lets go, even for a second, I might disappear.
“I’m going to talk to him,” she says, her voice taut, stretched thin over worry. “Keep an eye on us, and if something goes wrong, I have you on speed dial.”
I turn and press a soft, steadying kiss to her cheek. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, baby. You’re safe.”
She squeezes my hand one last time before stepping away. Losing her in a crowd is impossible. We blended ourselves into this masquerade as well as we could, but she stands out to me like a flare in the dark. Her soft features are half-hidden by the mask as she wears the dress I chose for her, and beneath theshimmer is the knife strapped to her thigh—visible to no one but me.
The moment her scent fades from reach, anxiety punches into my chest. I track her with unblinking focus as she glides through the ocean of bodies toward Theodore. The wig, the makeup, the mask—they do their job. He doesn’t recognize her.
At least, not immediately.
