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Chapter Text

Sophia lay cramped on the city rooftop. A rat scampered across behind her and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted up through an open window a few stories below, but her focus was entirely on the binoculars that were aimed at the street. Far below her, the doors to a hotel lobby swung upen and a crowd of socialites, models, and other notables walked out into the street, the music from the party flowing out behind them through the open door.

In the middle of the group, heiress, high fashion model, and the person sophia had been waiting for: Daniela avanzini. She walked confidently on a crimson silk ground that brushed the new york pavement and was held up only by two diamond shoulder clasps. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head, and the silk clung to her hips and her abs. Her steps were deliberate but slightly intoxicated as Sophia watched her giggle into Manon’s shoulder.

By her side stood model and designer Manon Mannerman. Her silver suit glinted in the streetlights and her collarbones glittered bare underneath. Her hair was braided long down her back, and Daniela stroked it softly as they walked.

Sophia’s earpiece crackled, grounding her in the moment. "She’s the package," came the voice in her ear. “Target’s been confirmed. Proceed to Phase One.”

“Copy,” Sophia said, slipping the lens away.

Time to meet Daniela.

Sophia swung her legs over the edge of the building and dropped into the fire escape like she belonged to it. One smooth descent, silent boots on iron grates, and she was in the alley. The black clutch under her arm held exactly three things: a velvet-lined sample case, a matte black switchblade with a her initials engraved, and a tiny revolver.

She stepped into the light on 58th Street, where the air shimmered with the breath of limousines and flashbulbs. A new crowd had gathered. The photographers were vultures tonight—drunk on champagne and beauty and scandal. That made her job both easier and harder.

Sophia adjusted the neckline of her slip dress, a dark emerald green that made her skin look like polished honey, and checked her reflection in a parked car’s window. Bangs tidy. Lipstick intact. Earring comms hidden under a mismatched pair of designer hoops—her own creation, of course. Everything about her whispered boutique wealth and niche taste. She was here, officially, as Sofie Laforé, the up-and-coming Filipina jewelry artist who’d just secured a pop-up in SoHo. Just another girl with clever fingers and something to sell.

Across the street, Daniela Avanzini threw her head back and laughed.

Sophia watched her like an astronomer might watch a comet: all brilliance, no permission. blinking hard she tried to break the transfixion.

The heiress leaned into Manon’s side, her hand curled lazily around the lapel of the silver suit. Her skin gleamed with highlighter and summer sweat. A photographer called her name and she turned, posed, and for one second, locked eyes with Sophia.

Just a flicker.

Then it was gone. Sophia crossed the street.

“Excuse me—sorry,” she murmured to a man in a too-tight velvet blazer as she slipped past. Her heels clicked into rhythm, her body syncing to the music still echoing faintly from the rooftop party above. She timed it perfectly. In twelve steps, she was at the car. In thirteen, Daniela was turning toward her, just a breath before the doorman opened the door of the black car waiting to swallow her whole.

Sophia stepped forward.

“Ms. Avanzini?”

Daniela blinked, slightly glassy, but amused. “Are you serving subpoenas? because i'm too busy tonight.” she giggled, her voice laced with champagne.

Sophia smiled. “No, I’m here with something more interesting than paperwork.” She cracked open the clutch and tilted the velvet case toward her.

Inside: five pieces of glittering jewelry. A sharp, asymmetrical ear cuff shaped like barbed wire; a ring like a crushed serpent; two long gold earrings—one broken into a spike, the other an explosion of delicate starbursts—and a bracelet that read like Braille across the wrist.

Daniela arched a brow.

“I’m Sofie Laforé,” Sophia said. “I design for the Noir Bijou collective. We met briefly at the Paris showcase last month, I think?”

Daniela looked at her. “Did we?”

Sophia tilted her head, smile unwavering. “You were wearing Margiela. I was in the corner trying to convince a critic that blood orange garnets were going to replace emeralds.”

Daniela studied her for a beat too long. Then she smiled—just barely. “That sounds like something I’d ignore.”

Sophia nodded toward the jewelry. “One of your stylists requested a custom delivery. Said you were looking for something gnarly for next week’s cover shoot.”

Daniela plucked the bracelet out of the case, ran her fingers across the Braille-like bumps. Her nails were blood red, suggestively short and glossy.

“And you hand deliver your pieces at midnight?”

“Only for interesting potential costumers,” Sophia said, soft but serious.

A small smile curled on Daniela’s lips.

Manon stepped closer behind her. “Do you have a card?” Her voice was low, and her eyes—darker than they looked in photos—didn’t blink.

Sophia handed her one. It had a minimal black-on-black design. The address on the back was a false front—a gallery in Chinatown owned by another operative.

Manon glanced over it, then passed it to Daniela. “I like the ring,” she said. “It looks like a weapon.”

“It is,” Sophia said. “But legal.”

"Shame." Daniela turned the bracelet over in her hand again. Her brows drew together, just slightly. “What’s this say?”

Sophia hesitated.

“It’s a line from Carmen, translated into Tagalog,” she said finally. “Ang babaeng di mo kayang paamuhin ay ang babaeng dapat mong sambahin.”

Daniela raised her eyebrows. “Let me guess. Something poetic and vaguely threatening.”

Sophia smiled. “Roughly: The woman you can’t tame is the one you should worship.”

Daniela let out a soft laugh. “Of course it is.”

And then—without asking—she slipped the bracelet on.

“Text me,” Daniela said, nodding toward the card. “If I forget who you are again.”

Sophia’s pulse was steady, but barely. “I will.”

Manon opened the car door, and Daniela slid inside like a dream ending. Sophia caught one last glimpse of her silhouette framed by red silk and tinted glass.

Then the door shut.

The car pulled away.

Sophia turned back toward the sidewalk, heart racing beneath her necklace—a tiny gold pendant shaped like a dagger.
In her ear, the voice crackled again.

“Phase One: successful. You’ve made contact.”

She started walking.

But her thoughts stayed in the back seat of that car, wrapped in crimson silk and a gaze she hadn’t meant to hold onto. Daniela hadn't given her a phone number.

Chapter Text

Daniela lay spread across her cream velvet sofa, a silk eye mask pushed halfway up her forehead and a hot mug of tea steaming on the mahogany coffee table in front of her. The TV played an old Dior runway she wasn't watching. she sighed again.

Manon was in the armchair across the room and she rolled her eyes. “You’re being weird. Text the jewelry girl or I will.”

Daniela rolled her eyes back, but a smile ghosted across her lips. She reached for her phone with a slow, deliberate flourish but hesitated before unlocking it.

New Message > Jewelry Girl (Sophie):

Dani: One of the earrings fell out of my hair last night and my cat is threatening to eat it.
You should come retrieve it.

Dani: 9pm. Dress code: classy, sarcasm optional. bring more jewelry.

She hit send, then tossed the phone down and exhaled.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered to herself.

From the armchair, Manon—eating blueberries out of a crystal coupe—snorted. “You’re obsessed.”

Daniela raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued. There’s a difference.”

Manon tilted her head. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Daniela didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled the silk mask all the way down and said, “Wake me when she confirms.”

—

The elevator doors opened straight into the penthouse, soft jazz spilling out into the hall like something out of a Fellini film. No blaring DJ or pulsing crowd this time—just dim lighting, a few low conversations, and the clinking of real crystal.

Sophia stepped inside, heels soft against the rug. She wore a loose black blouse tucked into slate gray trousers, a delicate chain resting at her collarbone. A simple look—artful, confident, curated to look effortless. Like someone used to orbiting rich people, but not necessarily of them.

And tonight, that’s exactly who she was: Sofie Laforé, up-and-coming jewelry designer, freshly back from a stint in Paris and ready to seduce the Manhattan fashion elite with ethically sourced gems and a penchant for asymmetry.

“Hey,” came a voice from the kitchen. “You found it.”

Daniela stood barefoot on the marble tiles, hair loose and half pulled up by a golden clip, a half-empty wine glass in one hand. She wore an oversized cream button-up that hit mid-thigh and looked suspiciously like it belonged to someone else—or no one at all. Underneath was a pair of chic black shorts that a corner of her shirt was tucked into, held in place by a gold belt. Her curls were slightly frizzed from the humidity, and Sophia had to look away for half a second just to remember to focus.

“I was promised a party,” Sophia said, stepping in. “This looks suspiciously like a wine-and-spite girls’ night.”

Daniela grinned and held up her glass. “Well. Consider yourself the entertainment.”

From behind her, a figure appeared, backlit by the hallway sconces. Tall, sharp-featured, with waist-length braids and a designer graphic tee that read Photogenic but Dead Inside.

“Sophie Laforé,” Manon said. “The jewelry girl.”

“Just Sophie works.” Sophia said with a light grin.

“This is Manon,” Daniela said, waving her over. “She’s my best friend, unofficial stylist, and my therapist when my real one stops returning my calls.”

“Which happens often,” Manon added, extending a hand. “You brought the violent looking ruby earrings, right?”

Sophia pulled a small velvet pouch from her bag. “Left and right—equally lethal.”

They sat together on the couch, feet tucked up, a cheese board between them that looked like it had been raided and rebuilt three times over. A Nina Simone record hummed from the vintage turntable by the windows.

It felt… easy.

Too easy.

Sophia watched the way Daniela curled into the couch, wine glass balanced effortlessly, one leg tucked beneath her. She talked like someone who had never once needed to impress anyone but still managed to impress everyone. Manon, meanwhile, was curled against the armrest, eating olives with her fingers and asking about ring sizing like she actually cared.

“So where are you from?” Manon asked, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Your accent’s hard to place.”

Sophia kept her smile relaxed. “Manila originally. Then London. Paris last year. I bounce around.”

Daniela tilted her head. “Nomad or avoidant?”

“I’m an artist,” Sophia said smoothly. “Which is just a socially accepted form of either.”

Manon laughed. Daniela sipped her wine, hiding a grin.

Sophia let the moment stretch, then looked between them. “So… are you two a thing?”

There was a beat of silence—and then both Daniela and Manon burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” Daniela wheezed. “You think this—” she gestured wildly between them, “—is this?”

Manon held up a finger, still laughing. “Please. I’ve seen her cry over a scarf. A scarf, Sophie.”

Daniela shoved her with one foot. “It was vintage Saint Laurent!”

Sophia grinned, her cheeks warming. “I just thought… you’re close.”

“We’ve been close since we were seventeen,” Manon said. “But no. If I had to live with her and date her, I’d die of overexposure.”

Daniela raised her glass. “You don't live with me, you just crash more nights than not. Like a bad hook up that won't leave. Cheers to boundaries.”

They clinked and laughed.

For a moment, Sophia let herself relax. She liked this version of them: no spotlights, no staged entrances, just a room full of half-empty glasses and half-true stories. But somewhere beneath her calm surface, the mission clock still ticked.

Daniela leaned forward, pulling the velvet pouch toward her.

“These are the earrings?” she asked.

Sophia nodded.

Daniela pulled one out—long, angular, with shining ruby veining through sharp lines of rose gold. She held it to her ear, then looked at herself in the dark window glass.

“Gnarly,” she said.

“Thank you,” Sophia said.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Daniela replied, but her mouth curled up in a smirk.

“You’ll wear them, though.”

Daniela tilted her head. “That’s true.”

Manon stood up, stretching. “I’m heading out before someone dares me to mix tequila with this red wine. Are you staying?” she asked, looking between them.

Sophia hesitated.

Daniela spoke first. “She just got here!”

Manon nodded, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Right. Of course.”

She leaned over and kissed Daniela’s forehead, then shot Sophia a wink. “Good luck. She’s a handful.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

The elevator dinged, and Manon was gone.

Silence returned. Soft and velvet.

Sophia turned to Daniela. “So. What happens now?”

Daniela swirled the last of her wine. “Now you tell me something you don’t want anyone to know.”

Sophia blinked. “That’s the price of staying?”

“It’s the price of entering.”

Sophia studied her, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small, unfinished ring—half-set with tiny stones, delicate as breath.

“This is for my sister,” she said. “She died when I was seventeen. I’ve been trying to finish it for six years.” it wasn't true, but it was a lie that came so close to the truth it hurt.

Daniela’s expression shifted—barely, but there. A flicker of something real.

“That’s the kind of thing you use to get someone to fall in love with you,” she said softly.

Sophia held her gaze. “Is it working?”

Daniela looked down at the ring. Then at her.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Chapter Text

Sophia wasn’t expecting anyone to walk through the shop door. Least of all her.

The bell above the studio door gave a lazy chime, and Sophia—crouched at her workbench, hands lost deep in a tray of antique chains—looked up.

And there was Daniela. Wearing oversized sunglasses, black trousers that hit above the ankle, and a camel trench thrown loosely over a white tank top. Her curls were twisted up into a clip that made her look more like a European art student than a girl who'd once been escorted out of the Cannes Film Festival for stealing someone else's yacht.

Sophia straightened slowly. “Wow. You do emerge outside the penthouse.”

Daniela removed her sunglasses and gave her a slow once-over. “On Sundays and bank holidays. You look different when you’re not pretending to be cool at my party.”

Sophia grinned. “You invited me. I thought I was supposed to be cool.”

Daniela wandered further into the space, eyes drifting from case to case. It was a clean studio—sunlight through frosted windows, concrete floors, sketches taped to the wall, trays of loose stones and metals stacked with calculated chaos. The kind of place that felt lived-in by someone who needed to create or combust. Sophia was glad she had taken so much time to create her cover shop.

“I had a fitting nearby,” Daniela said. “Saw your name on the door.”

“My names not on the door.”

Daniela shrugged. “fine, I looked you up. I was curious.”

Sophia crossed her arms, amused but quietly unnerved. “Curiosity can be a dangerous trait.”

“Only when it’s mutual.”

Silence stretched between them, soft but not entirely comfortable. Daniela stepped up to the case nearest the window, where Sophia’s more experimental pieces sat like fossils: molten silver cuffs, asymmetrical chokers, a single ceramic-inlaid earring that resembled a cracked tooth.

“These are gnarly,” she said.

“You said that last night.”

“I meant it both times.”

Sophia came closer, brushing a strand of straight black hair behind her ear. “Why are you really here?”

Daniela hesitated, then turned. Her expression wasn’t flirtatious this time. It was… interested. Focused.

“I wanted to see what you’re like when you’re not performing.”

Sophia blinked.

Daniela leaned against the table. “Everyone’s always pretending. You just do it better than most. I wanted to see what was underneath.”

Sophia exhaled slowly. Careful.

“I’m a jewelry designer,” she said. “Not a magician.”

Daniela picked up a half-finished pendant—a soft geometric shape, almost like a spiral frozen mid-twist.

“What’s this one?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sophia admitted. “Started as a mistake.”

Daniela turned it over in her fingers. “Most of my best decisions do.”

“Same for my best lies,” Sophia murmured, too quietly for Daniela to hear—or so she hoped. she but the inside of her cheek.

“I like it,” Daniela said, placing the pendant down. “It’s… unresolved. Feels honest.”

That word again.

Sophia swallowed. “Thanks, it's yours.”

Daniela met her gaze. “Have dinner with me.”

Sophia blinked. “Is that a question?”

“No,” Daniela said, breezing past her. “Seven. I’ll send a car.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Sophia sat on the wooden bench trying to control her heart rate and her breathing.

—

The restaurant was tucked behind an antique bookstore, the kind of place with no sign on the door and a maître d’ who seemed to recognize your sins as you walked in.

The car had arrived exactly at seven, black and glossy, with no driver visible behind the tinted windows. Sophia had tried to dress like she wasn’t trying—slim trousers, a structured and embroidered navy jacket, and a pair of delicate silver earrings she’d made last week, quietly sharp and just a little dangerous. the gun was still deep in her purse, under a layer of lipglosses and a small wallet.

Daniela was already seated when she arrived. A table in the back, half-shadowed, two glasses of wine untouched and a linen napkin folded on her lap like it had been born there.

“You’re late,” Daniela said.

“You’re early,” Sophia replied, slipping into the seat across from her.

Daniela smiled behind the rim of her glass. “Touché.”

The restaurant was quiet. Jazz played softly overhead, and the lighting made everything look like a 1960s perfume ad. Sophia tried to relax her shoulders, to lean into the part she was playing, but something in her stomach was already wound tight. It wasn’t fear, exactly.

It was proximity.

Daniela’s dress was simple—backless, silk, the color of deep red wine. Her hair was brushed out into glossy waves that touched her collarbones, and a pair of fine gold chains looped around one ear.
She looked like she’d just stepped out of a portrait.

“You’re not what I expected,” Daniela said, after the appetizers were cleared.

Sophia raised an eyebrow. “You expected more crystals?”

Daniela laughed. “I expected someone who’d want to impress me.”

“And I don't?”
“You want to interest me,” Daniela said, swirling her wine. “That’s more dangerous.”

Sophia stared at her glass. “You don’t seem easy to impress.”

“I’m not,” Daniela said. “But I’m incredibly easy to disappoint.”

That stopped Sophia. She looked up—really looked—and saw the faintest crack behind Daniela’s glossy, composed mask. A flicker of something more human than headline.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Sophia said quietly.

Daniela held her gaze. “That’s a terrible goal. You don’t know me yet.”

Sophia smiled. “Then help me fix that.”

They talked through dinner. Slowly, cautiously. Daniela asked sharp questions and gave sharp answers—stories of castings gone wrong, modeling in Seoul at seventeen, a night spent hiding in a stranger’s kitchen to avoid paparazzi another one doing coke in a dive bar bathroom. But now and then, she’d stop herself, eyes narrowing slightly. As if surprised at how much she wanted to tell.

And Sophia?

She lied like a professional and managed to keep down her dinner.

She talked about growing up between airports, her fake years in design school, her faux mentors in Florence, the fictional ring she’d once made for a minor royal. All of it slipped from her mouth like silk.

But her eyes kept drifting. To the way Daniela held her glass, the way she tucked her hair back when she laughed. The way she looked at Sophia like she was a painting she hadn’t finished yet.

Halfway through dessert, Sophia’s phone buzzed under the table. A message.

From: R.

Status check. You’re drifting. Stay on mission. We need access.

Sophia’s heart hitched, just slightly.

Daniela tilted her head. “Bad date emergency?”

“Just work,” Sophia said, sliding the phone away to her purse. “It can wait.”

“You sure?” Daniela asked. “You don’t strike me as the type to leave emails unread.”

Sophia forced a smile. “What type do I strike you as?”

Daniela leaned back, folding her hands. “Someone who never lets their guard down unless it’s on purpose.”

Sophia blinked. “And what if it isn’t?”

Daniela stared at her a moment longer, then softened.

“Then I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them had shifted—less flirtation, more recognition. Like two people meeting on the edge of a cliff, unsure of whether to jump or back away.

The check came. Daniela paid with a black card embossed with her name. Sophia caught the glint of it before it disappeared.

D. Avanzini

No middle name. No titles. Just Daniela, etched like a brand.

Outside, the night was velvet-warm. A car waited. Daniela turned toward it, but then stopped.

“You want to come back to mine?” she asked, casual as anything.

Sophia hesitated.

Every alarm inside her flickered. Her agency had warned her—this was the phase where it got messy. The closer you got, the more you blurred. And she could already feel the blur taking shape.
But Daniela stood there, expectant, slightly guarded, her silhouette caught in the amber light.

And Sophia said, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

The car door opened for them without a word. The ride was silent, but not strained. Sophia watched the city blur through tinted glass, lights streaking like brushstrokes. Daniela sat beside her, one ankle tucked under the other, hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t make small talk. Didn’t reach for Sophia. She just… waited.

When they arrived, the elevator ride to the penthouse stretched longer than it should have. Or maybe it just felt that way—because they stood close, too close, and the silence between them thrummed with something electric and fragile.

Daniela unlocked the door with a fingerprint and a code. The penthouse was dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the windows. Tall ceilings, soft lines. Art that looked expensive and vaguely tragic. A jacket was flung carelessly over a velvet chair. A half-empty glass of champagne on the kitchen counter. Like she lived in a magazine but couldn’t quite follow the script.

Daniela dropped her keys into a bowl and turned.

“Drink?”

Sophia nodded. “Whatever you’re having.”

Daniela poured two glasses of something amber and smooth. Handed one over, but didn’t move away.

“You’re good at pretending,” she said quietly.

Sophia met her eyes. “So are you.”

Daniela tilted her head. “Maybe. But I think you’re better.”

A pause. Then, without ceremony, she walked to the windows, heels soft against the polished wood floor. Sophia followed, slower.
The view was ridiculous—Manhattan stretched beneath them like a glittering map. But neither of them looked at it for long.

Daniela turned. “You’ve been watching me since the party.”

Sophia’s heart stuttered. “And you’ve been letting me.”

Daniela smiled, slow and unreadable. “Maybe I wanted to see how far you’d go.”

Sophia stepped closer. “And?”

“I still don’t know who you are,” Daniela said. “But I want to.”

That did something to Sophia—something unprofessional, unsanctioned, and entirely human.

She set her drink down.

Daniela’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “You shouldn’t kiss me.”

Sophia swallowed. “I know.”

But she did anyway.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless.

It was careful, devastating, unsure, and Daniela leaned into her.

Daniela tasted like bourbon and mystery. Her hands were steady as they rose to Sophia’s face, curling just under her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth like she was trying to memorize it.
Sophia deepened the kiss without thinking, just feeling. And for a second, she forgot the mission. Forgot the agency. Forgot the name she wasn’t born with.

It was just Daniela. Warm, real, and close.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, neither of them moved away.

Daniela’s voice was quieter now. “You still haven’t told me the truth.”

Sophia pressed her forehead to hers. “You wouldn’t believe it if I did.”

A beat.

Daniela’s phone buzzed on the counter, sudden and sharp.

She didn’t check it.

Instead, she took Sophia’s hand and led her deeper into the apartment. Past the art. Past the stories.

Danielas bed was unmade creme sheets that smelled like her hair. They collapsed onto the plush duvet like they were starving for each other, and maybe they were.

Sophia’s mind raced with the implications of this—what it meant for her job, for her future. But she pushed those thoughts aside.

This wasn’t about the mission. It was about the woman in her arms.

It was about the truth she hadn’t told her yet. The one she was afraid to say out loud.

But maybe it was also about finding out if she had any other truths to tell at all.

Daniela moved a hand up her shirt and suddenly Sophia was gently unzipping Dani's dress and unclipping her bra. She barely noticed the nickname burrowing into her head.
The sound of fabric slipping against skin filled the room as their kisses grew more urgent.

Each touch peeled back layers, leaving them vulnerable and exposed.

But the phone buzzed again, a persistent reminder of the world outside their bubble. Daniela’s hand hovered over the dresser, and for a moment, she almost reached for it.

Sophia pulled her back, whispering, “Leave it. Just for now.”

And for now, they did.

—

Sophia woke slowly.

Sunlight poured in through the wall of windows, soft and golden. It skimmed across pale wood floors, velvet furniture, and the slow rise and fall of white curtains breathing with the breeze.

Daniela’s bed was too large, too soft, and smelled faintly of her perfume—something citrusy, sharp, and clean. The sheets were a whisper against Sophia’s skin. Expensive cotton, slightly tangled.

For a moment, Sophia didn’t move.

Last night hadn’t been part of the mission. Not technically. And yet it was now part of her—part of the body still curled under this duvet, part of the breath she was holding without realizing.

Daniela wasn’t beside her.

The space was still warm, the imprint visible, but she was gone.

Sophia sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to her chest, suddenly aware of every decision she’d made in the past twelve hours. Her hair was a little messy, her earrings still in. Her phone—her real one—was still buried in her purse across the room, untouched.

No surveillance had followed her in. Not that she knew of.

But she could feel the burn of consequences pressing in around the edges.

She rose, padding silently toward the closet-sized bathroom off the bedroom. Marble everything. Daniela’s makeup laid out like a stylist had arranged it. A silk robe hanging neatly on the back of the door. Sophia didn’t put it on.

Instead, she stepped into the kitchen. Daniela stood there barefoot, wearing an oversized shirt—button-down, white, probably Sophia’s—and nursing a coffee from a heavy ceramic mug.

Her back was to her, curls slightly mussed, sunlight catching in the strands like gold threads. One leg bent as she leaned against the counter. Completely at ease.

Sophia should have felt power in the stillness.

Instead, she felt... seen.

Daniela turned, sensing her.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. No makeup. No jewelry. No personas. Just two women standing in the aftermath of something fragile.

Daniela held out the second mug.

“I don’t usually let people stay,” she said.

Sophia took it. “I don’t usually stay.”

They both sipped. The silence was warm this time. Familiar.

Daniela’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “You could tell me who you really are.”

Sophia’s fingers tightened around the mug.

“I could,” she said, carefully. “But I think that’s a one-way street.”

Daniela studied her. “Then lie better. I’ll pretend to believe you.”

Sophia smiled faintly, even as something in her cracked.

She looked down into the coffee, searching for answers in the swirl.

“I’m Sophia Laforteza,” she said at last. “Jewelry designer. Scorpio. Raised in too many countries. Terrible at staying in one place.”

Daniela’s mouth twitched like she wanted to challenge it—but didn’t.

Instead, she said, “I figured you were a Scorpio.”

Sophia laughed once, softly.

Then her phone buzzed from her purse.

One buzz. Then another.

Then three in rapid succession.

She didn’t move.

Daniela leaned back against the counter, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I don’t have to know everything,” she said. “But if you’re going to lie to me—”

“Make it beautiful?” Sophia said, finishing the thought.

Daniela smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No. Just make it worth it.”

Sophia stepped closer, until their shoulders nearly brushed.

“Can I see you again?” she asked, not sure which part of her wanted it most.

Daniela didn’t answer immediately. She reached out, gently adjusting a strand of Sophia’s hair behind her ear.

“You already are,” she said. “Now go pretend to be whoever you need to be.”

And just like that, the spell broke.

Sophia gathered her things slowly. Slipped on her earrings. Her jacket. The gun remained untouched in her purse, as if even it knew it had no place here.

The elevator ride down felt even longer than the one up.

By the time she stepped onto the street, the morning had fully arrived.

She checked her phone.

Six messages. Three from R. One flagged urgent.

You crossed a line.

We need to talk.

You’re compromised.

Sophia exhaled slowly.

Then texted back.

Not yet.

And walked away.

Chapter Text

The rooftop was glossy with intention—roses floating in crystal, waiters weaving between conversations with champagne flutes held aloft. It was the kind of party meant to look effortless and cost a fortune.

Sophia lingered near the railing, watching Manhattan glitter below like a lie told too well.

Her focus wasn’t on the skyline. It was on Manon.

Something about her had started to hum wrong. A low signal in Sophia’s gut. At first, it had been instinct—too silent, too smooth, too convenient. Always there. Always just watching.

But lately, the evidence had started stacking.

Shipment routes that didn’t track with Daniela’s travel but did with Manon’s. A customs hold that had mysteriously vanished after a visit from Manon’s so-called “agent.” Too many coincidences. Not enough data.

Until tonight.

Sophia had been watching the crowd when she saw it: Manon moving away from the bar with her usual quiet grace—but not toward Daniela. Not toward any of the glossy socialites or half-drunk gallery owners. Instead, she slipped behind a service door tucked beside the kitchen.

Too casual. Too clean.

Sophia waited three seconds, then followed.

She slipped through the same door, heels silent on the stairwell tile, pulse steady. The hallway beyond was dim, humming with old light fixtures and low conversation.

Sophia ducked behind a maintenance cart just in time.

Manon stood farther down the hall with a man Sophia didn’t recognize. Sharp jaw, European-cut suit, the kind of face that had been in too many fake passports.

“Zurich says the shipment’s late,” the man snapped, French accent crisp. “They’re threatening to pull.”

Manon didn’t blink. “They won’t. It’s already on the water.”

“You’re certain?”

“I packed it myself,” Manon said. “Unless your people at the port drop the ball again.”

The man frowned. “This new girl—Daniela’s latest obsession. Should we be worried?”

Sophia held her breath.

Manon’s answer came without hesitation. “She’s nobody. Jewelry girl. Pretty, sure, but harmless.”

A pause.

“If anything,” Manon added, “she’s good for Daniela. Keeps her distracted. Focused elsewhere.”

Sophia’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when everything in her mission had just snapped into clarity.

It wasn’t Daniela. It had never been Daniela.

Manon was the one moving product.

Sophia pressed a hand to the cool metal frame of the cart. Her pulse was too loud in her ears. Manon’s voice stayed calm, professional.

“I said I’d handle it. We’ve had to adjust. NYPD surveillance on Pier 19 doubled this week.”

“Then shift the route. You’re not new to this, Mannerman.”

Mannerman.

Not Mannerman the model. Mannerman the operator.

“We’ll reroute the next delivery through Palermo,” she said. “Smaller port. Fewer eyes. And if the NYPD gets nosy, I’ll handle it.”

“Handle how?”

“Whatever way I need to.”

The man nodded, and a moment later, they both disappeared down another hall, their steps fading like a closing door.

Sophia stayed still a little longer, just to be sure. Then she backed out the way she came, careful, precise, blending into a group of partygoers headed for the terrace.

Her heart was steady. Her mind was not.

She needed to call it in. She needed to tell the agency they had it wrong.

Manon Mannerman—the quiet best friend, the shadow in every glittering room—was the target.

And the worst part?

She still thought Sophia was innocent.

---

It was just past midnight when Sophia slipped back into her studio.

She didn’t turn on the lights.

The only glow came from the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across her workbench, where scraps of chain and stones gleamed like debris from some old storm. She dropped her clutch on the stool, peeled off her jacket with shaking hands, and crossed to the far corner of the room.

There, behind a false drawer in a filing cabinet that hadn’t held a real document in months, sat a matte-black phone with no SIM and no traceable signal.

She powered it up with a breath held tight.

A moment later, the screen lit.

Secure uplink ready.

Sophia typed the code with a practiced hand.

Then she pressed the single button marked:
BLACK CHANNEL – FIELD REPORT

The line rang once. Then clicked.

“Identify,” came the filtered voice on the other end. Cold. Familiar.

“Laforteza,” she said. “Field agent 09-77. Embedded New York. Reporting breach in original target profile.”

“Proceed.”

Sophia closed her eyes for a beat. Then opened them.

“Confirmed tonight—Avanzini is not primary. She’s volatile, yes. Connected socially, yes. But not involved in operations. Not aware. Not suspicious.”

A pause. Then:

“New lead?”

Sophia leaned against the edge of the desk, pulse steady now. She kept her voice calm.

“Yes. Manon Mannerman. Daniela’s best friend. Model. Operative. Code names unknown. I overheard her confirming shipment status with a known foreign handler. She’s directing movement. Orchestrating re-routes. High-level logistics. Possibly mid-tier command.”

A faint click. The other side recording.

“Can you maintain cover?”

“Yes,” Sophia said. “She doesn’t suspect me. Still thinks I’m a jewelry designer. Distracting eye candy.”

Another pause.

“Personal attachment?”

Sophia’s jaw tightened. “Manageable.”

“Then do not break cover. Maintain close proximity. Confirm next shipment path and timeline. Upload visuals if possible.”

Sophia nodded once, even though no one could see.

“Understood.”

“Laforteza.”

“Yes?”

“You do not warn the civilian. Not unless we give the go. Do you understand?”

Sophia hesitated. Just long enough to mean something.

“…Understood.”

The line cut out. The screen went dark.

She sat there a long moment, staring at nothing, letting the silence fill her like smoke. Manon. All this time, Manon. Cool, quiet, unreadable. The one person Daniela trusted without question.

And now Sophia knew why.

She stood, slipped the black phone back into its hiding place, and finally turned on the lights.

They flickered to life overhead, revealing her reflection in the studio window.

Sharp earrings. Tired eyes. A version of herself she barely recognized.

This wasn’t just a mission anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

But now it was something worse: A mission she could finish.

And the girl she loved might not survive it.

---

Sophia shut the door to her apartment with the quiet care of someone trying not to be heard—despite knowing no one else was there.

The moment it clicked closed, she let out a slow breath. Not relief. Just… calibration.

Another night out with Manon and Daniela had only left her certain and jumpy.

She set on the kitchen counter her phone. Her earrings came off next—silver, minimalist, sharp enough to pass as tools in a different life.

She stood in the dark for a moment, back to the door, forehead resting against the wood.

Manon.

A phantom in designer. A shadow that had slipped right past her for weeks.

She walked to her desk and powered up the secure tablet, the screen flickering to life with a faint green hum. The agency’s interface appeared like a ghost—cold, clinical, familiar.

Sophia opened a blank report.

Agent: Laforteza, S.
Cover: Active (jewelry designer)
Location: NYC (Avanzini proximity)
Subject of Note: Mannerman, Manon

Her fingers hovered, then typed fast:

New intel confirms primary interest in Mannerman, M.

Subject maintains close relationship with Avanzini, D., but patterns suggest autonomous operations.

Observed behavior aligns with courier profile. High composure, trained eye.

Intercepted burner call three nights prior—timestamp and location appended.

No breach of cover.

Recommendation: shift operational focus. Maintain Avanzini link for proximity.

Awaiting further instruction.

She attached the coordinates and partial audio file from her off-grid mic pickup, then encrypted the entire packet. A familiar flicker of doubt slid through her before she hit send.

Was she sure?

No.

Was she certain enough?

Always had to be.

The message vanished into the ether.

Sophia leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give her something softer to feel. Something quieter than the ache behind her eyes. Than the guilt tightening around her ribs.

Sophia scrubbed a hand down her face and muttered, “You’re not here to be liked.”

But her voice sounded like someone else’s.

She turned off the lights and crawled into bed without changing. One hand still on her phone. Just in case.

Chapter Text

Milan glowed golden in the evening light.

The city rolled past the car windows in a blur of shuttered balconies and ivy-wrapped homes. Sophia sat with her fingers laced through Daniela’s, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest. She should have been used to this—traveling under a name that wasn’t hers, attending events filled with ulterior motives—but something about this trip felt different.

Maybe because Daniela had kissed her in the elevator that morning as she left the pent house with her hair mused, half-asleep and barefoot, whispering “You’re coming with me, right? I want you there.”

Maybe because Sophia had said yes, even though her handler had warned her Milan was part of the route and she would have to be on guard.

The drop would happen tonight. And Sophia didn’t know yet if she’d be watching it—or stopping it.

“You’re quiet,” Daniela murmured, turning toward her in the backseat. Her red nails traced small shapes across Sophia’s palm. “Is it the show? You’re not nervous, are you?”

Sophia smiled faintly. “You’re the one walking a runway in heels taller than my dignity.”

Daniela laughed. “Please. You’re going to be front row next to that editor from L’Officiel who always tries to adopt people, especially designers. Watch out.”

Sophia leaned in, kissed her softly. “I’ll survive.”

Daniela touched her cheek and smiled the way she always did when she let her walls down—a little uncertain, a little too hopeful. “I’m glad you’re here. Really. You make it all feel... less fake.”

Sophia looked out the window again.

The car pulled into a quiet entrance behind the converted train station where the show was being held. Bodyguards and stylists flurried around them as soon as the door opened. The moment between them slipped away into flashbulbs and orders.

As Daniela disappeared into hair and makeup, Sophia turned—and saw Manon.

She stood half in shadow, talking low into her phone, her posture too casual. Her eyes flicked to Sophia for half a second before she hung up and disappeared behind a curtain.

---

Manon looked in the makeup artist mirror. The dress they gave her was nothing short of absurd—silver, tight, sleeveless. It hugged her like a second skin, and sparkled under the work lights as the stylists adjusted the hem.

She didn’t care.

The drop was at 20:00. That left two hours. The show would end at 19:40. Enough time to change, leave with the excuse of a “private fitting,” and reach the edge of Milan Centrale.

No one in this world of sequins and flash would notice. No one ever did.

Except maybe Sophia.

Manon had seen the way Sophia looked at her. Not like the others. Like she was measuring.

She didn’t know who Sophia really was, but she’d learned to trust her instincts. And her instincts told her the girlfriend wasn’t just here to design jewelry and kiss Daniela Avanzini backstage.

That was dangerous. For both of them.

Manon stepped into line with the other models, her face smooth and blank. If she focused on walking, on timing, she wouldn’t think about Daniela. About how sweet she’d looked earlier, kissing Sophia’s shoulder, laughing at something about lip gloss and microphones.

Daniela didn’t know. Not about the smuggling. Not about what Manon owed. Not about how close everything had gotten to unraveling last year in Marrakesh.

She was better off not knowing.

The music started. Manon stepped forward into the lights.

---

The show was beautiful. Harsh and haunting, with the designer's expression practically yelling through the outfits. Lights swept across the crowd like searchlights, and the music pulsed through the metal beams like a heartbeat.

Sophia barely noticed.

Her eyes stayed on Daniela, who walked like liquid fire against the industrial stage. And on Manon—who walked in silver, too confident, flirting with the audience with every look, just barely allowing her eyes to flit around the room at the cameras, exits, and the audience.

The moment the show ended, Sophia stood.

Daniela was pulled away again—interviews, stylists, champagne. She mouthed “Wait for me?” and Sophia nodded, heart catching in her throat.

But Sophia didn’t wait.

She slipped through the side exit, flashing a staff badge, and followed the service corridor around the back of the building. Her earpiece buzzed once—a signal from her backup, waiting a block away.

She ducked behind a loading truck, just in time to see Manon walk out of the building in street clothes, a small black duffel slung casually over one shoulder. She didn’t look around. She just walked.

Sophia followed.

The train station platform was mostly empty.

Monon reached Track 9 and stopped beneath the rusted arch. A man sat on a bench nearby, coat pulled high, face unreadable. He didn’t look at her. Just stood when she did and walked toward the alley beside the station.

She followed.

In the shadow of the concrete, she passed him the bag.

He opened it, checked inside, nodded.

“Zurich?” she asked.

“Same time. Tomorrow.”

Manon turned to leave.

Then stopped.

A sound—soft, but definite. A heel scraping concrete.

She turned slowly.

Sophia stood ten feet away.

They looked at each other for a long second. The wind tugged at Sophia’s coat. Somewhere far off, a train howled.

“You’re not a jewelry designer,” Manon said flatly.

Sophia said nothing.

“Are you here for me?” Manon asked. “Or for her?”

Sophia’s jaw tightened. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re the reason she’s in danger.”

Manon let out a short, cold laugh. “You don’t understand anything.”

“I understand enough.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed. “Then don’t get in the way.”

And with that, she turned and walked down the platform, vanishing into the dark.

She stayed there for a long time after Manon left.

The train station was quiet again, just the soft clatter of an arriving train in the distance. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Daniela.

Dani<3: Where are you? I’m looking for you. Miss you.

Sophia stared at the message.

She wanted to go back. Wrap Daniela in her arms and pretend the world wasn’t tilted.

But something had shifted.

And she knew, for the first time, that loving Daniela might mean protecting her from the people closest to her.

Even if that meant more lying.

Even if that meant watching the girl she loved walk straight into danger—with no idea it was already wrapped around her.

---

The suite smelled like roses and steam.

Daniela was already barefoot when Sophia entered, the hem of a white hotel robe brushing her knees. She stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the orange lights of Milan below, hair still damp from the shower. She didn’t turn right away.

Sophia closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it.

She needed to think. To decide what she was going to do about Manon, about the drop, about the feeling growing heavy in her chest. But all of that went silent when she looked at Daniela.

There were only so many moments like this left. There were always fewer than you thought.

“You disappeared after the show,” Daniela said softly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Daniela finally turned. Her eyes scanned Sophia’s face—not suspicious, just searching. “Are you okay?”

Sophia gave a small nod, stepping closer. “I just needed air. It was a lot.”

Daniela opened her arms, and Sophia went into them like falling into warm water.

“You were amazing out there,” Sophia murmured into her neck. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Daniela smiled into her hair. “I saw you. Front row, looking like someone who belonged there more than me.”

They stood like that for a long time—no rush, no roles to play. Just the thud of Sophia’s heart against Daniela’s ribs.

“You smell like honey,” Sophia said.

“Hotel soap,” Daniela replied, kissing her shoulder. “But I’ll pretend I’m magic.”

Sophia laughed softly and pulled back to look at her. Daniela’s face in this light looked unreal. Skin soft, lips curved, eyes curious.

“Lie down with me?” Daniela asked.

Sophia nodded.

They slipped under the covers together, facing each other, legs tangled without hesitation. Outside, the city murmured. Inside, it was quiet. Sacred.

Sophia ran a hand down Daniela’s back, over smooth skin and the faint rise of her spine.

“I’m glad I met you,” Daniela whispered. “I don’t say that enough.”

Sophia swallowed. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Daniela touched her cheek. “I used to think intimacy meant drama. Fireworks. Screaming and kissing and falling apart. But this…”

She tucked her face into Sophia’s neck.

“This is quieter. But it feels stronger.”

Sophia held her tighter. “You make me feel like I exist.”

“You do,” Daniela said. “You do more than anyone I know.”

But Sophia wasn’t sure she believed that. Not when so much of her life was built on half-truths and names that weren’t hers. Not when she had just watched Daniela’s best friend walk into a smuggler’s handoff without her even noticing.

She wished she could give Daniela the truth. Lay it bare like jewelry on velvet, gleaming and unhidden.

But she couldn’t.

So instead, she pressed her lips to Daniela’s forehead and whispered, “You have no idea how much I love you.”

Daniela smiled sleepily. “Then tell me again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sophia said, hoping she wasn't lying. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Two months after the fashion show, everything seemed to go back to normal. Manon still side-eyed Sophia once in a while, but she cackled at her jokes and kissed her cheek endearingly for Daniela.

Their mutual understanding was uncomfortable, but safe... for now.

If Dani had noticed anything was off, she certainly didn't say so. She filled their days with coffee shops and beach trips, and their nights with fashion shows, cozy nights in, and nights out so wild Sophia had to carry her home.

Dani had always lived like no one was watching. Maybe that was why she didn't notice Sophia’s carefully firm hand on her back or Manon’s glance into the alley across the street.

But Manon and Sophia were constantly alert. Surveilling their surroundings, and each other.

It was a quiet night in, Manon’s head in Dani’s lap and Sophia’s arm around her waist, all of them watching a black and white runway when sophia told them.

“I’m having a jewelry exhibition downtown.” Manon sat up and Daniela clapped enthusiastically, kissing Sophia on the lips.

“That's so great, Soph! you've been wanting this for so long!” Sophia had in fact been dropping hints since the fashion show that she wanted an exhibition, ever since she had gotten the ok from headquarters.

Sophia was setting a trap. A trap lined with velvet and a gilded lock. She hoped that Manon wouldn't see through it, and that Dani could grow to forgive her.

Manon gave a dazzling grin that seemed less guarded. “I'm so happy for you Soph! I assume we’re invited? I'll wear my best couture.”

Sophia smiled, though her chest tightened like a clasp pulled just a touch too hard. “Of course. Front row. I’d be devastated if you weren’t there.”

Manon leaned back into the plush couch, legs draped across Daniela’s lap again, stretching like a cat. “Then I expect champagne, mood lighting, and enough drama to make Paris Fashion Week cry.”

Daniela beamed. “That’s just a regular Thursday for us.”

Sophia chuckled softly, watching as the two most dangerous people in her life curled around each other like silk ribbons. She took a slow sip of her wine, letting the warmth coat her mouth, pretending her heart wasn’t racing.

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. She had been wanting an exhibition. Something real, something hers. But this wasn’t that—not truly. The exhibit would showcase pieces constructed by the agency’s ghost designers, with hidden cavities for RFID trackers, pressure sensors, and micro-emitters disguised as sapphires. A curated guest list would be carefully seeded with known intermediaries, suspected smugglers, and a few faces she hadn’t seen since Berlin.

A luxury trap, designed to snap shut with a whisper.

Daniela played with the edge of Sophia’s sleeve. “Will Cold Flame be on display?”

Sophia’s breath caught, but she smiled. “No. That one’s yours.”

Daniela smirked, clearly pleased, and returned her attention to the screen. Manon’s eyes didn’t leave Sophia.

The rest of the night passed like melted honey—smooth, golden, too sweet to be real. At some point, Manon fell asleep on one end of the couch, long limbs tangled in a cashmere throw. Sophia was barely awake herself, Daniela’s breath warm on her neck as they curled together.

But sleep didn’t come.

Sophia’s mind drifted through diagrams, blueprints, guest registries. Routes in and out of the gallery space. Security feeds. Emergency protocols.

And beneath it all, a quieter thought she didn’t want to examine too closely: What happens when this ends?

The exhibition was set for Friday night.

The week passed in a blur of fittings and floral consultations. Sophia posed for press photos. She gave vague quotes about “transforming heirloom energy into contemporary shape” and “the emotion of tension in metal.” Daniela beamed through it all, insisting on helping pick outfits, smiling so wide it made Sophia’s stomach ache.

Manon, of course, asked no questions. She merely watched.

On Thursday, Sophia came home late to find the apartment dimly lit, Daniela asleep on the balcony, a silk robe slipping from one shoulder, and Manon seated on the windowsill, half in shadow, smoking something that smelled floral and foreign.

“She’s happier,” Manon said softly, before Sophia could speak.

Sophia leaned on the doorframe, tired but alert. “She deserves to be.”

Manon took a slow drag. “Do you ever think about what’ll happen after the velvet curtain falls, Laforteza?”

Sophia flinched.

Manon exhaled toward the dark city. “You hide it well. You even lie like you’re in love.”

“I’m not lying.”

Manon finally looked at her. “No. That’s the problem.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sound of distant traffic rose and fell, like a heartbeat under silk.

Then Manon crushed the cigarette against the windowsill and stood. “Good luck tomorrow, Sofie.”

She brushed past Sophia without touching her, pausing only to kiss two fingers and lay them gently on Daniela’s shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Sophia stood there a long time, watching Daniela sleep. Her chest felt like it was being slowly filled with concrete.

She didn’t sleep that night either.

Chapter Text

The gallery was once a private chapel, stripped of its stained glass and reborn in cold elegance. Polished concrete floors. Steel beams exposed like bones. And light—so much light—angled in geometric patterns across the white walls like it was frozen in design.

Sophia stood at the center of it all, radiant in a blood-red gown cut sharp at the shoulders, her hair twisted into a sculptural knot of control. A serpent of diamonds coiled around her neck—real jewels, but meaningless. The real pieces were elsewhere. Watching.

Guests flowed in like a tide of perfume and polished shoes. Models walked through the crowd displaying her collection—every necklace a coded signal, every earring a whisper.

Her team was woven invisibly through the space. The bartender was ex-Mossad. The violinist had once wired explosives in Damascus. Every glass tray held more listening power than a diplomat's conference.

And then they arrived.

Daniela stepped into the room like a moon through clouds. She wore a custom creation of silk and shimmer, the color of stormy seafoam, her dark curls tumbling freely around her face. Beside her, Manon wore sleek black velvet and silver bangles that clinked like tiny clocks—every movement deliberate.

Sophia felt the floor shift under her.

Daniela reached her first, laughing as she leaned in for a kiss that tasted like Prosecco and danger. “You did it,” she whispered. “You’re a genius, Sofie.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. “You’re breathtaking.”

Manon appeared beside them with two flutes of champagne. “The crowd’s practically vibrating with money and secrets,” she said smoothly. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

Sophia smiled tightly. “Let’s hope they buy.”

They moved through the room like royalty—Daniela stopping for compliments, Manon watching everything, Sophia calculating angles and escape routes even as she smiled and played host.

At precisely 9:17, her earpiece buzzed—just once.

He was here.

The suspected buyer. Codename Glass Man. A shadow on Interpol’s list. He moved between countries and identities with ease, trafficking not only jewels but information. He never attended events. Until now.

Sophia turned slightly and caught him in her peripheral vision—tall, well-dressed, perfectly unremarkable. He was speaking to one of the models wearing the Obsidian Bloom necklace, the one wired with a proximity trigger.

He glanced at her.

And smiled.

Sophia’s heart slammed once, but she smiled back. Polite. Professional. Then turned away.

“He’s here,” she said under her breath.

Manon heard her, tensing just slightly.

Daniela was still chatting with a stylist she knew from Paris, oblivious to the way the walls were closing in.

“I’ll handle it,” Sophia said to Manon, barely audible. "don't do anything."

Manon’s voice was calm. “Do you trust me?”

Sophia met her gaze. “No.”

Manon laughed under her breath. “Smart girl.”

The next fifteen minutes moved in slow motion.

Sophia slipped through the crowd, past the decoy models, toward the secure wing where the “private viewings” were staged. A soft velvet curtain concealed the entrance. Inside, hidden behind polished security glass, was the final piece: The Frostbite Halo. A choker so fine it looked like spun ice.

And that was the exchange point.

As Sophia reached the threshold, her earpiece buzzed again—three pulses.

Complication.

Then static.

She froze.

And then she saw Daniela. Walking toward her. Alone.

“Soph,” Daniela said, eyes bright, holding a glass of wine. “They said the final room’s invite-only, but I want to see it. You said there’d be one surprise piece.”

Sophia’s body screamed no, but her face smiled. “It’s... not quite ready.”

Daniela tilted her head. “Not even for your favorite girl?”

Sophia hesitated.

Then a voice behind her: “She should let her see it.”

Manon.

Standing in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes glittering.

Sophia looked between them—her mark behind the curtain, her target standing in front of it, and the wildcard poised to push this whole thing sideways.

She smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “Come on in.”

---

Daniela loved beautiful things.

Always had. Even as a child, she'd reach for the necklace before the doll, the silk scarf before the toy car. Texture, color, the way certain stones caught the light and whispered stories only she seemed to hear—beauty was more than luxury to her. It was armor. It was identity.

That’s why she’d wanted to see the final room.
To see the heart of what Sophia had made.

But now, inside the viewing room, her pulse thrummed with something that didn’t feel like awe.

Sophia was tense.

Too tense.

And Manon, who’d been right behind her only seconds ago, hadn’t followed them in.

Daniela slowly stepped toward the center pedestal, her heels echoing on the polished stone. The necklace—Frostbite Halo—was stunning. Ethereal, almost unreal. She leaned forward, mesmerized by the way the icy stones shimmered like frost just before it melts.

“You never showed me this one,” she murmured.

Sophia gave a soft smile. “Some pieces are… hard to explain.”

Daniela tilted her head. “Is it real?”

Sophia hesitated. “Yes.”

And somehow, that was the wrong answer.

Daniela took a step back, suddenly too aware of the space. The clean lines. The security glass. The velvet curtains that muffled the outside world.

She turned, meaning to ask Sophia something—something she couldn’t quite put into words—when the curtain rustled behind them.

A man stepped in.

Sharp suit. Clean hands. Nondescript in the most terrifying way. Daniela recognized the type. Not a model. Not a mogul. Not anyone whose photo had ever graced a red carpet. The kind of man who belonged everywhere and therefore could be anywhere.

He looked at Sophia.

Smiled like they knew each other.

Sophia didn’t smile back.

And suddenly, Daniela knew.

Not everything. Not yet. But enough.

Her stomach dropped like a falling stone. That quiet hand on her back all those nights. The sudden tension when Manon looked into alleyways. The way Sophia always sat facing the door.

She wasn't just a designer. She wasn’t just Sofie.

Sophia shifted, stepping between Daniela and the man, subtly but definitely. A barrier.

"You're early," she said to him, voice like a knife wrapped in satin.

The man shrugged. “I got impatient.”

“You’re not on the list,” Sophia said coolly.

He smiled wider. “I never am.”

Daniela took one step back.

Sophia didn’t move. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“She’s already seen too much,” the man said.

For a brief moment, he looked at Daniela directly. His eyes were unreadable, but somehow she felt… appraised.

Marked.

Sophia’s voice was deadly soft. “You make a move toward her, and this entire building goes dark in twelve seconds.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Then I guess we both better behave.”

Daniela’s breath caught.

This wasn’t some flirtation, some dramatic power play. This was something else. Something that made her wonder if the jewels were wired with more than gemstones—if the models had been briefed in more than lighting cues.

She looked at Sophia again. Really looked.

And saw it. Not just fear—but calculation. Poise. A layer of cold beneath all the warmth.

Her chest ached.

“You lied to me,” she whispered.

Sophia didn’t turn. “I didn’t want to.”

And that was when the lights flickered.

Just once.

But enough.

---

Manon stood just outside the viewing room, her back against a column, wineglass untouched in her hand. From this distance, she could hear nothing—but she didn’t need to. She could feel it.

Something was wrong.

Her instincts, always quiet and precise, now screamed beneath her skin like too-tight silk. The curtain had fallen shut too quickly. Sophia hadn’t made eye contact on the way in. And Daniela—sweet, golden, vulnerable—had gone in blind.

She slipped a hand into her clutch.

The dagger-thin blade pressed against her palm like reassurance. Always the stylist, always unnoticed. Her tools were supposed to be for cutting fabric and stitching fasteners. But tonight, everything had a double purpose. Tonight, Manon wasn’t just playing stylist.

She was choosing sides.

She moved through the crowd, slowly at first, just enough to circle back toward the eastern corridor. Her earrings buzzed—coded frequency, tapped through the signal Sophia must have had planted weeks ago.

One buzz.
Pause.
Three more.

Change of plan.

She was being warned.

Which meant Sophia knew what was in the room. Knew that someone dangerous had made contact.
Manon’s jaw tightened.

After all their quiet glances. All their veiled honesty. Sophia had still locked her out. Or maybe she thought Manon already knew.

That stung more than she expected.

She reached the corner just as the lights flickered.

Not much. A soft blink. But enough to know that someone was testing the defenses.

Her hand tensed on the dagger. If the lights went out fully, there would be less than fifteen seconds before the room went into security lockdown—and then anything could happen.

Her earpiece crackled. A new voice. One she hadn’t heard in years.

“Agent Mannerman, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage. Extraction plan is being activated.”
Manon froze.

That voice.

She’d burned that bridge. Years ago. After Brussels. After she’d walked away from them.

But now they were calling her agent again.

she wasn't their agent, not after everything she had done.

“Fuck,” she whispered, her voice swallowed by the low hum of the gallery.

Sophia must have reactivated her file. That snake.

Manon’s pulse raced. Her hand hovered near the curtain—Daniela was in there. Daniela, who had trusted her. Who still looped her arm through Manon’s on late nights and asked for help pinning dresses and never once questioned why Manon always knew where the cameras were.

And now she was a pawn. A pawn caught between whatever Sophia had set in motion and whatever predator had just walked in.

Manon hated feeling like a pawn.

“Don’t engage,” the voice repeated in her ear.

But Manon was already moving.

Not toward the extraction point.

Toward the room.

She slid past the velvet curtain, silent as breath. Her eyes adjusted instantly to the low light inside.

She saw them:

Sophia—tense and furious.

The man—cool and calculating.

And Daniela, standing between them, staring at Sophia like her heart had just cracked open.

Daniela’s gaze shifted—and locked on Manon.

Manon gave her one look. One tiny nod.

I’m here.

No one else moved.

Then the lights flickered again.

And didn’t come back on.