She blinks up at me. "Oh. That's... thank you."
"You are my asset. I will provide for your needs."
"Partner," she corrects quietly. "For the purposes of the mission."
"Correct."
She takes my offered hand, and I pull her up and out. She stumbles slightly on the gravel, and I steady her with a hand on her waist. She is warm. Soft. Smaller than me by nearly a foot.
The protective instinct surges.
I lock it down.
This is a contract. A mission. Nothing more.
"Okay," she says, smoothing her dress. "Okay. We can do this. Just follow my lead, don't threaten anyone, and for the love of god, please try to smile at least once."
"I do not smile."
"Of course you don't."
"Smiling implies weakness."
"Or friendliness."
"Also weakness."
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like "I'm going to need so much therapy after this," and then takes my arm.
I allow it.
We walk toward the venue. The gardens are filled with pastel colored humans, holding drinks, laughing. They look soft. Unaware. Easy targets.
I catalog exits. Note cover positions. Identify potential threats.
A woman in a lavender dress approaches, arms outstretched, smile wide and sharp.
Colletta's entire body becomes rigid.
"Target acquired," I murmured.
"That's my sister," she hisses back. "Do NOT call her a target."
Too late. I have already assessed: five-foot-six, one hundred and thirty pounds, high heels that reduce mobility, expensive jewelry that indicates status. Hair done in elaborate curls. Makeup precise.
The bride.
Monica.
"LETTIE!" She descends on us like a pastel missile, pulling Colletta into a hug that looks more like a tactical restraint. "Oh my god, you made it! I was so worried you'd bail again like you did on the engagement party and the dress fitting and—" She pulls back, keeping her hands on Colletta's shoulders, and her gaze shifts to me.
Her eyes go wide.
Very wide.
"Oh my god," she says again, but this time her voice climbs an octave. "Oh my GOD."
"Monica, this is?—"
