"As myself." The weight of it settled over me. Every job I'd ever worked, I'd hidden behind someone else's face. Scarlett Sinclair. Alexandra Winters. A catering server, a hotel maid, a delivery driver. Five years of wigs and fake IDs and borrowed uniforms, and tomorrow I'd walk into the biggest event of the season as Charlie Collins. Press credentials with my real name. A camera in my hand. No mask. No character. Just me.
It was the bravest thing I'd ever considered doing. It was also, possibly, the stupidest.
Dominic reached for his phone. "I'll coordinate with Cass. Discreet Heartline backup at the ball. The plan is simple: photograph Walsh meeting Morello again. Two photos six months apart connecting the same two men. We hand everything to the feds and blow the conspiracy open."
"Simple," I repeated.
"You don't sound convinced."
"Last time something was simple, someone tried to run me off a bridge." I threw back the covers. "I need coffee. And possibly a bulletproof dress."
He caught my wrist as I stood. Drew me back. Kissed me once, firm and quick.
"We've got this," he said.
I believed him. That was the scariest part.
Chapter Six
Dominic
The Gilded Hart had been beautiful the first time. Tonight — Valentine's Day, the biggest night on Cupid City's social calendar — it was weaponized.
Red roses banked every surface. Staircases, archways, the massive stone fireplace in the main ballroom. Gold chandeliers threw light across a crowd dressed to be seen: gowns, tuxedos, diamonds catching and scattering like signals. A string orchestra played from a stage draped in white silk, and Cupid City's elite moved through it all with the ease of people who'd never had a bullet come through their window.
I scanned the room from the entrance. Three exits visible. Service corridor to the left, behind the champagne station. Kitchen access through the east hallway. Balcony doors along the south wall, decorative but functional. Emergency lighting near the ceiling, fire exits marked in the standard positions. I catalogued each one while Charlie collected her press credentials from will-call.
She came back with the lanyard around her neck and her camera in her hand, and I had to recalibrate.
Red dress. At a Valentine's Ball, that was camouflage — half the women in the room were wearing some version of it. She'd vanish into the crowd instead of standing out. Smart. The fabric skimmed her body without clinging, moved when she moved. Hair down, dark, no wig. No glasses. No borrowed persona. Just Charlie.
She caught me looking. "What?"
"Nothing." I adjusted my earpiece. The tux hid the tactical vest, the holster, the cuffs on my belt. Cass was running ops from the Watchtower, June feeding intel through comms. Two Heartline operatives in the crowd, and I'd spotted both on entry. "You ready?"
"I've crashed a hundred events. Walking through the front door is the easy part."
It wasn't. And she knew it. Every other time, she'd had a wig between herself and the room. A fake name. A character to hide behind. Tonight she was walking into a ballroom full of people who hated Scarlett Sinclair, wearing her own face.
That took guts. More than any fire escape or linen closet ever had.
"Cass." I kept my voice low, touching the earpiece. "We're inside. Position?"
"Copy. Walsh arrived twenty minutes ago. East salon with associates. Morello hasn't been spotted yet. June's monitoring the guest list. He's expected."
