"I’m going," she hisses. "I just... I felt someone looking at me."
"Don't look back," I order. "Eyes forward. You are invisible."
She reaches the elevator. She scans her badge. The doors slide open. She steps in.
The camera feed cuts to the elevator interior. She is alone. She sags against the wall, closing her eyes for a second.
"Talk to me," she whispers. "I need to hear you."
"I’m right here," I say, my voice dropping to a low rumble. "I’m in your head, Ivy. I’m in your blood. You’re doing perfect. You look... competent."
"I look like a librarian."
"A sexy librarian," I correct her. "I want to rip that suit off you."
She lets out a shaky laugh. "Focus, Silas."
"I am focused. I’m looking at the biometrics. Your heart rate is down to 110. Good girl."
The elevator dings.
"Showtime," I say. "Remember the plan. The Romanov Icons are in the climate-controlled vault at the end of the hall. The escrow agent is a man named Mr. Henderson. He is a bureaucrat. He fears authority. Be Sterling. Be arrogant."
"Arrogant," she repeats. "Got it."
The doors open.
She steps out into a hallway lined with armed guards. Sokolov’s personal elite. These aren't the rented muscle downstairs. These are Spetsnaz washouts with dead eyes.
My muscles coil tight.
"Chin up," I command. "Walk like you own the building."
Ivy straightens her spine. She clutches her clipboard to her chest and marches down the hall.
"ID," a guard barks, stepping in her path.
"Excuse me?" Ivy snaps, channeling an impressive amount of disdain. "I am Professor Sterling’s associate. I was supposed to be here ten minutes ago to certify a fifty-million-dollar transaction. Do you want to be the reason the Sinaloa Cartel walks away from this deal? Because I will happily tell Mr. Sokolov thatyouheld me up."
The guard blinks. He looks at her badge, then at her face. The "bored, annoyed assistant" act is working.
He steps back. "Go."
"Thank you," she sniffs.
"Brilliant," I murmur. "You’re a natural liar, Mrs. Vane."
"I learned from the best," she shoots back.
She reaches the vault door. Mr. Henderson is there, looking sweaty and nervous in an ill-fitting suit.
"Ms. Jenkins?" he asks, checking his watch. "You’re late. The Professor..."
"The Professor is currently vomiting in a cab on 5th Avenue," Ivy lies smoothly. "Food poisoning. I’m handling the certification. Open it."
Henderson hesitates, then swipes his card.
The massive steel door hisses open.
