"Because of the dress?"
"Because of the confidence." He turns me to face him. "You look like someone who belongs in that world. Someone who makes things happen."
"I'm still just a scientist."
"You're brilliant, brave, and standing in my bedroom wearing expensive silk after letting me take control. You're a lot of things, Isabella. 'Just' isn't one of them."
The words settle something in me, quiet the doubt that's been building since Prague. He sees me—really sees me—and still thinks I'm capable of this.
We make ourselves presentable, check each other for evidence of what just happened. His hair is mussed, but that's normal. My lips are swollen, but lipstick can fix that. I step back into Margot's sundress, hang the emerald gown carefully in his closet for tomorrow.
To anyone else, we'd look like we've just been trying on clothes.
When we head downstairs, Luc is still at the table, now reviewing tactical maps on his tablet. He glances up, nods, goes back to his work without comment.
Margot, however, looks at me once and her expression shifts to something knowing. Years of reading people, of recognizing the signs.
She says nothing, just pours fresh coffee, sets it in front of me with the barest hint of a smile.
"Tu devrais bien dormir ce soir," Margot says.
"Je l'espère bien," I reply.
"Good. You'll represent the family well." Her gaze shifts to Remy, eyebrow raised. "Both of you should rest before tomorrow. New York will be dangerous."
"We know," Remy says.
"Do you?" Margot leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Because it looks like you're taking unnecessary risks already."
The words carry double meaning. Remy's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't argue. Just nods.
"We'll be careful," he says.
"See that you are." Margot returns to the kitchen, dismissing us.
By late afternoon, we've stress-tested every contingency for New York—scenarios ranging from simple transaction to violent confrontation. My head aches from tactical thinking. My body aches from everything else.
When Luc finally closes his laptop, I'm grateful for the reprieve.
Later, lying in the guest room, I listen to the sounds of the house settling. Down the hall, Remy is in his bedroom suite—close enough to reach, too far given his family's presence.
Tomorrow we leave for New York. Tomorrow the mission becomes real. The emerald dress hangs in the closet, waiting.
I'll walk into a room full of weapons dealers and pretend I belong there. I'll pretend I'm someone who trades in death for profit.
It should terrify me.
But tonight, I have the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice commanding obedience, his control fraying just enough to show me the man underneath. Tonight, I know what it feels like to surrender completely and discover power in the letting go.
Tomorrow, I'll need all of it.
8
REMY
We take separate flights.
That was my call, and it was the right one. Separate bookings, separate TSA lines, separate cabs to the Knickerbocker on West 42nd. We'd settled it the night before in New Orleans—she goes, because buyers won't take the word of two operatives that the research is legitimate. They need someone with the technical expertise to answer their questions and verify the work is genuine.
