The gala’s held at the Novaria Sky Dome—a glass cathedral floating above the city, starlight draped like a blanket across its domed ceiling. The elite swirl in silks and jewels, laughter clinking like crystal. Every face is a lie.
We step in, arm in arm.
A server floats by with champagne. I take two flutes, hand one to her.
She sips. “Don’t fall for me too hard.”
I lean in, voice low at her ear. “You wish.”
She snorts. “Please.”
I brush my lips along her neck, just above the curve of her shoulder. Slow. Deliberate.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I do.”
Her breath hitches.
For a second, we’re not undercover. Not acting. Just... two people pretending they don’t want more.
The dance floor opens. She tugs me forward.
“I don’t dance,” I warn.
“You do tonight.”
The music swells. She presses close. My hands settle at her waist. We move slow, rhythm born of breath and instinct. Her fingers skim my neck. My pulse kicks.
“You’re watching the room,” she says.
“Always.”
“Don’t miss what’s right in front of you.”
I meet her eyes. “Not a chance.”
We spin, glide. A blur of movement, of electric touches in the dark. Her heel brushes my boot. I catch her as she stumbles, and for a heartbeat, she’s against my chest.
She looks up, lips parted.
And gods help me, I want to kiss her here. Now. In front of the whole damn syndicate.
Instead, I whisper, “We’ve got a tail. Two o’clock. Bald guy, broken nose.”
“Classy.”
“Keep dancing.”
We do. Right through the intel exchange. A woman in red slips me a data chip behind a kiss-on-the-cheek. Sable’s smile doesn’t crack.
By the time we leave, the chip’s buried in my boot.
No alarms. No chaos.
But my gut’s tight.
In the hovercar home, Sable leans against me, bare shoulder warm against my arm.
“What’s on the chip?” she asks.
