Moreau nods, settling back in his chair like a man with nothing to hide. "Of course. Take your time."
Fitz gestures for Marissa to follow him toward a more secluded corner of the lobby. She goes without question, leaving me alone with Moreau.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
The moment they're out of earshot, Moreau's expression changes. The polished mask slips just enough to show ice underneath.
"You don't trust me," he says quietly. "That's smart. You shouldn't."
I keep my expression neutral. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I'm the least of your problems, Kingslayer." He leans forward, voice dropping even lower. "Tell me something. How well do you really know Nocturne?"
Every instinct screams danger. This is manipulation, a play to create division. I should shut it down immediately.
But I don't.
"Well enough," I say.
Moreau's smile is thin, knowing. "You barely know her at all. High-stakes mission, emotions running hot, adrenaline clouding judgment. You think she's surrendering to you because she trusts you, cares about you."
"Careful," I say, voice dropping low.
"She's a trained operative," Moreau continues, ignoring the warning. "One of Interpol's best deep cover specialists. Do you have any idea how good she is at becoming exactly what someone needs her to be? How convincing she can make a lie?"
"She's not lying."
"That submission you think is real—what better cover could there be?" I hold his gaze, letting silence stretch. He's good—hitting exactly the pressure points that would work on someone less experienced. Someone who hadn't spent twenty years reading people in life-or-death situations.
"You're playing a weak hand, Moreau." My voice carries the flat certainty of a man stating facts. "If Marissa wanted me compromised, I'd already be dead. She's had a dozen opportunities. Instead, she's bled for this mission. For that child. Try again."
But I file away his angle of attack. Not because I believe it—because understanding how someone tries to manipulate you tells you what they're afraid of.
Moreau sits back, studying me with those cold, calculating eyes. "I told you the Conductor doesn't trust her. I didn't say she wasn't working for him. Think about it, Kingslayer. Every operation she's been on, every move she's made. How do you know which side she's really playing for?"
I want to shut him down, want to walk away, want to tell him to go to hell and never question Marissa again.
But doubt flickers. Just briefly, barely there before I crush it down, but enough that I hate myself for letting it exist at all.
Because Moreau's words land where they're designed to land. The operational questions I've pushed aside. How her cover lasted years in the Iron Choir when others burned out in months. How perfectly she adapts to every situation, every role. How convincing she is when she needs to be.
It's manipulation. Moreau's trying to fracture our partnership before the gala. Every word is calculated to create exactly this doubt.
But knowing doesn't make it go away.
"You don't believe me," Moreau says, reading my silence correctly. "That's fine. But ask yourself this—when she looks at you, when she submits to you, when she whispers your name inthe dark—how do you know it's real? How do you know she's not the Conductor's best weapon, aimed straight at your heart?"
Movement across the lobby saves me from having to respond. Marissa and Fitz returning, both their expressions neutral.
But when Marissa's eyes meet mine, her face changes. Some subtle shift in her expression that tells me she sees it, sees the doubt Moreau just planted, sees the question I'm trying desperately to hide.
Her face goes blank.
And in that moment, I know I've made a catastrophic mistake.
"We've heard enough," Fitz says to Moreau, voice hard. "You're coming with us for further questioning."
Moreau doesn't resist as Logan's team materializes from their positions around the lobby. Doesn't argue as they secure his wrists with practiced efficiency. He just smiles at me, small and knowing, as if to say his work here is complete.
