This place is none of that.
The suit hangs off the back of the chair like an accusation. I stare at it for a long moment before reaching for it, jaw set, irritation coiling tight and familiar in my chest. Extravagance draws eyes,and the last thing I want is eyes on me. But I don’t have a choice. The cover demands it. Uniforms change, but the job doesn’t.
I quickly get dressed before stepping in front of the mirror. The person staring back at me is barely recognizable.
My hair is combed back and tied neatly at the nape of my neck. Beard trimmed just enough to look intentional instead of feral. Scars hidden beneath fabric and ink, stories buried where no one can ask questions about them. This version of me looks civilized and acceptable. It’s a lie, but a useful one.
Tonight is the night I deal with Barre, but first, I have a cover to maintain. I need an alibi in case things go south.
I adjust the knot of my tie and think that I’ve worn worse disguises than this. I grab the camera bag and exit the room.
The gala unfolds exactly the way I expect it to.
Soft lighting designed to flatter, music calibrated to be present without demanding attention. Clusters of people orbiting one another with practiced ease, conversations overlapping in carefully managed proximity. It’s all surface-level diplomacy—every smile measured, every gesture rehearsed.
I move along the perimeter first, camera raised, lens sweeping the room while my eyes do the real work. Security is visible but unevenly placed—heavier near the main entrance, thinner along the far wall where the windows are reinforced but stillvulnerable. Two exits I don’t like. One I do, and so I file it all away automatically.
The camera gives me purpose. It lets me linger without suspicion, approach without invitation. I document what I need to while tracking everything else—the way people stand, who they lean toward, and who watches without participating.
Then the staircase catches my attention. Not because of movement at first, but because the flow of the room shifts subtly, like a current changing direction. Heads turn, conversations falter. It’s instinctive, collective, and I follow it without thinking, lifting the camera just as two women appear at the top.
Addison Sinclair first.
She looks exactly like she belongs here—confident, sharp, and at ease in a way that only comes from repetition. She descends the steps like this is familiar ground, shoulders back, expression alert and engaged. She’s dressed for visibility and credibility. There’s no hesitation in her movement.
Then Kate steps into view, and everything else drops away.
I still the camera too late to pretend this doesn’t hit harder than it should. My grip tightens imperceptibly as I watch her take the first step, then another, the light catching her in a way that feels unfair. She’s not dressed to dominate the room, but she commands attention anyway. The dress is simple but elegant, moving with her instead of ahead of her, fabric skimming curves she doesn’t try to hide or highlight.
She looks… steady. Very different from the woman who stood on a rooftop in Los Angeles with flushed cheeks and too much honesty in her eyes. This version of her carries herself like she knows she has a role here, even if she’s still figuring out what it is.
My breath stalls for half a second.
I don’t let myself dwell on it. I adjust the lens, frame the shot, press the shutter. The click grounds me, pulls me back into function. I’m a bit too late, though, because Addison notices me immediately.
She leans toward Kate, says something, and Kate’s head turns. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she looks away again, composure intact but awareness flaring. I don’t smile or acknowledge anything beyond what professionalism demands.
Addison, on the other hand, grins like she’s just found proof of a theory. She steers Kate toward me deliberately, pausing just close enough to invade my space without crossing a line.
“You clean up well, James,” she praises, eyes flicking between us. “I didn’t peg you for formalwear.”
I lift the camera slightly, noncommittal. “Part of the job.”
Kate’s gaze flicks to my tie, then back to my face. There’s something cautious there, but restrained. Good. Distance is good.
Addison smirks. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
I don’t respond. Silence is safer than denial.
They move on, weaving into the crowd, and I follow at a measured distance, camera up, pretending to document the event while positioning myself within line of sight. I tell myself it’s about coverage, angles, and making sure nothing goes wrong on my watch. But deep down, I know that I’m lying to myself.
Kate stops near a cluster of delegates, posture attentive as she listens, head tilted slightly, translating for Addison with quiet precision. I watch the way she adjusts her tone, how she softens phrasing without weakening meaning. She’s good—better than she gives herself credit for.
Addison watches her too, pride clear even from across the room.
I shift position again, pretending to capture candid shots while tracking movement around Kate. A man lingers too close, another watches too intently. Nothing actionable yet, but still, my focus narrows.
That is, until one man steps too close. He’s older, well-dressed, comfortable in the way men get when they believe the room belongs to them. His hand gestures are broad, his laughter a touch too loud, his body angling in a way that narrows Kate’s space without her realizing it at first. It’s nothing that would raise alarms to anyone not trained to see it, but I see it immediately.
