Her hand drops from my cheek, but the phantom of that contact lingers. “You’ll need to move differently too. Less…sharky.”
The same way she described me after knowing me for less than an hour. A few people who’ve spent their lives with me call me that too. How does she know? “I move…sharky?”
A slight, unexpected smile curves her lips. Her first real one all day. “The way you walk. You act like you own the space, always looking for threats. Here.” She demonstrates by exaggerating my stride. “The people at this party don’t hunt. They drift. They glide from conversation to conversation like nothing can touch them.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I glance away from my reflection as discomfort worse than the wool suit itches under my skin.
She just shrugs. “It is. But it’s their language.” Her gaze becomes sharp and businesslike again. “If you get this right, you’re invisible. No one looks twice at someone who belongs. That’s the trick of any world. You’re seen only if you stand out.”
The tailor shuffles away while mumbling about his measuring book.
For a beat, we stand together, multiplied out to infinity. Me in black wool, newly caged in formality. Jordan, the victim turned coach.
She studies my reflection. “I don’t think I can picture you in a proper tuxedo.”
“I don’t think I could ever picture you in a ball gown.” I try to imagine Jordan in crystalline necklaces over top layersof delicate fabric. Her hair coiffed and her nails polished. The image blurs, too unlike her to solidify.
“Not for years.” Something shutters behind her eyes. “I was sixteen when I attended my last gala.”
More of the story behind that night simmers underneath the surface, though she doesn’t say anything more.
And I don’t ask. Not yet. We don’t have time.
I switch to tactics. “We’ll need a story.” I’m already mapping the night: entry, cover, exits. “Why you’re back. Why I’m with you.”
“I’m coming home to make peace and bringing my boyfriend to meet my mother.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s a cliché no one will think twice about. Prodigal daughter returns seeking forgiveness.”
“And if your mother doesn’t buy it?”
Jordan’s gaze hardens into steel, revealing a glimpse of the woman who survived by sheer force of will. “My mother will be so shocked, she’ll forget to ask any questions until it’s too late and we’re already gone.”
The tailor reappears with a leather-bound book in hand, so we set aside the sensitive topic of Jordan’s mother. I’m not going to dig into that mess right now.
After I sign an agreement to pay extra for a rush job, G vanishes into the back.
Jordan reaches over to adjust my bow tie. Her gentle fingers linger at my throat. The intimate gesture feels almost obscene, but I force myself not to squirm. “This is a different mission. A different battlefield. But the same rules apply.” Her warm hands shift on my collar. “Observe. Adapt. Survive.”
I study her, not as a hostage, pawn, or the key to a door I need opened, but as a partner and guide. As someone who represents my sole hope at thwarting failure.
Just for a second, before she can slip away, I capture her hand in mine. “Observe. Adapt. Survive.”
The mirrors reflect these new facets of us.
The shark learning to swim in gentler waters. The mystic reclaiming the world she abandoned.
This weekend, we’ll both wear masks. But until then, we can be ourselves. At least with each other.
I pull at the tie. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 27
Jordan
The custom suit transforms Kirill.
My gaze keeps returning to him like a magnet drawn to iron, and with each glance, my pulse quickens. It’s not that he looks better, because Kirill’s carved physique and features always steal my breath with how they exude danger and desire. Now, though, he’s weaponized in a new way.
After securing my laptop and bag in the provided safe, he hovers in the center of our new hotel room at the St. Regis, a base secured with a few quiet words and whatever black magic he conjures with hotel managers.
