"Can't fire someone I didn't hire. I'm just... tolerating you."
"High praise." He took a sip. Black, no sugar, same as yesterday. "What's the plan tonight?"
"Winter Rose Gala at the Conservatory. Black tie, champagne, Cupid City's elite pretending they donate to charity because they care and not because they need the tax write-off." I leaned against the counter. "Senator Harlan Tully will be there with his wife. And his mistress. I need photos of both."
"Of course you do."
"It's a living."
I headed for the closet — my wall of disguises on full display. Wigs sorted by color and length on the top shelf. Fake credentials in a lockbox. Dresses ranging from cocktail to full gala. Server uniforms, catering outfits, a FedEx jacket I'd liberated for a particularly creative job last spring.
Dominic followed, leaning against the doorframe with his coffee. Close enough that I was aware of him taking up space. He did that — filled rooms just by standing in them.
"Tonight I'm Alexandra Winters," I said, setting the brunette wig on its stand. "Socialite donor. Old money, new Botox, more opinions than sense. Remember to call me Alexandra if you have to use a name in public."
"Got it. Scarlett Sinclair for the byline, Alexandra Winters for the gala." He took a sip of coffee. "Should I be keeping a spreadsheet, or do you hand out name tags?"
"Keep up, Knight. There'll be a quiz."
"You're forgetting the 'in shining armor' part if you're going to call me that." He leaned against the doorframe. "How about Prince Charming?"
"Prince Charming didn't carry a Glock."
"His loss."
I grabbed the red dress next. Silk, fitted, cut just low enough to blend with the crowd without screaming for attention. A dress that whisperedI belong hereto people who needed reassurance about that sort of thing. I held it against my body, checking the length.
When I glanced up, Dominic was watching me in the mirror. Not checking exits. Not scanning for threats. Watchingme— my hands moving through the wigs, how I held the dress against myself, how I was already shifting into someone else. His expression was focused, intent, like he was filing away a puzzle he hadn't expected.
"Take a picture," I said. "It lasts longer."
"That's your job, not mine." But he didn't look away. "Most people can't do what you do."
"Trespass and commit light fraud? You'd be surprised."
"Transform." He said it simply. No inflection. Just fact. "You walked out of this apartment yesterday as a completely different person. Same face, different everything — posture, voice, the way you moved. I've worked with undercover operatives who couldn't pull off what you do in a hotel hallway."
I didn't know what to do with that. Morty called me his best shooter. My family called me an embarrassment. Nobody had ever called what I did askillbefore — not the sneaking or the photos, but the becoming. The disappearing into someone else.
"Get out," I said, because I didn't have a better response. "You're distracting me."
He pushed off the doorframe. "From what? You're holding a wig."
"Fromplanning.Go be large and complimentary somewhere else."
His mouth twitched. But he went.
BY THE TIME THE SUNdropped and we were in his SUV heading toward the Conservatory of Glass & Roses, I was in trouble.
Dominic in a tux was doing things to my ability to think in complete sentences.
Black suit, perfectly tailored, sitting across shoulders that didn't need tailoring to look good. White shirt open at the collar — he hadn't put on the tie yet. Dark hair still slightly damp from his shower. The stubble was gone, jaw clean-shaven, and somehow that was worse because now I could see the sharp line of it, how it clenched when he was thinking.
He looked like he should be on a movie poster for a film involving car chases and a woman who makes terrible decisions. I was apparently auditioning for the role of that woman.
"You clean up nice, Knight."
He glanced over. His gaze dropped — just for a second, a fast sweep from neckline to hem — before snapping back to the road. "So do you."
