We were parked a distance outside Andrew Watson's estate—an architectural masterpiece that stood like a crown jewel in the shadows. Its tall black gates whispered of secrets, and the silent guards outside wore their menace-like tailored suits. The mission had begun, and yet… the air inside the car felt suspended. Heavy. Humming with tension. Vincenzo sat still beside me, his sharp eyes scanning the street like a hawk ready to strike. But something about his silence made my heart squeeze. I turned to him—and there it was. That look. A flicker of unease hiding behind the cool façade he always wore so perfectly. He was trying to hide it from me, but I knew him too well. That wasn't fear of failure. That was fear of losing me. He caught me watching him and offered a brief smile, the kind that never reached his eyes.
"The dance troupe just arrived," he said, voice low and clipped, every word laced with restrained urgency. "Eva, we need to replace one of them. I'll create the distraction… you move in when I signal. Wait for the right moment. Got it?"
I nodded, feeling the adrenaline pulse to life beneath my skin. Vincenzo leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss to my knuckles before stepping out. He didn't say it, but I saw it in his eyes: Come back to me. I held onto that look like a lifeline. The door closed behind him like a final breath.
Moments later, I saw her. A girl from the troupe stepped out of the vanity van, lost in her phone, completely unaware that fate had just put a target on her back. She moved lazily toward the front of the vehicle, standing beneath the overhang, distracted and alone.
Perfect.
Vincenzo glanced back at me through the drizzle and gave the faintest nod. With steady hands, I wrapped the sheer veil around my face, securing it tightly beneath my chin. The soft fabric clung to my damp skin. Beneath it, I whispered a silent vow: I will turn this mission into a victory… even if I have to die for it.
Then, it began.
Vincenzo, coffee cup in hand, walked toward her. His steps were casual—charming like he was just another man in a crowd. But I knew better. That man could pull down empires with a click. As he neared her, the coffee cup slipped from his grip—intentionally. The liquid splashed across her costume.
"What the hell?!" she snapped.
Vincenzo blinked with wide-eyed innocence, his voice dripping with velvet-smooth charm.
"I am so, so sorry, ma'am. I completely missed a step—I wasn't looking. Let me help, please. My car's right here. I have tissues, water… everything you need." He played his part with perfect innocence.
The girl blinked, clearly disarmed by his looks. Of course, she would be—he was the kind of man women dreamed of meeting on rainy nights. Dangerous. Beautiful. A walking illusion.
She hesitated, then followed him.
That was my cue.
I stepped from the shadows. Silent. Precise. A ghost in heels. The veil hid my identity. The small cloth in my hand was laced with a sweet-smelling chemical—harmless but strong enough to pull someone into sleep within seconds. As the girl neared the car, I moved behind her with fluid grace. One hand to her mouth. One whisper into her ear.
"Sweet dreams, darling."
Her eyes fluttered. Her knees buckled. I caught her before she hit the ground. He smiled, and we exchanged a quick fist bump.
"It's done," I whispered.
Together, we hid her beneath the false flooring of a maintenance van parked nearby — quick, clean, untraceable.
I turned to leave—but his hand grabbed mine. His grip was firm. Desperate. His eyes searched mine, stormy with something fierce—fear… and something deeper. "Eva," he said, voice low, laced with a kind of desperation I hadn't heard before. "Don't forget… whatever happens inside — I'll find you. I'll save you. Just trust me."
That kind of promise shouldn't be made before missions. It was too human. Too dangerous. I placed my hand gently on his cheek and felt the warmth beneath his cold rain-soaked skin. "I know," I whispered. "And I believe you." Then I hugged him—briefly, tightly—and stepped back, locking that moment inside me.
This isn't goodbye, I told myself.
I pulled the veil tighter and gave him one last look—one final moment that stretched like a lifetime. Then I turned and ran toward the vanity van. The other dancers were stepping out now—laughing, chatting, adjusting their outfits. I slipped in among them like a shadow taking human form. They wouldn't recognize me—my face was hidden, my movements trained, calculated, and covered in layers of silk, confidence, and danger.
No one noticed.
As we began to move toward Andrew's house—my target just within reach—I whispered under my breath, Let the countdown begin.
The veil clung to my face. The mission burned in my blood. And every step I took echoed with purpose.
Tonight, I was a phantom in silk.
A woman on fire.
And nothing could stop me.
The mansion loomed like a kingdom carved in obsidian — elegant, towering, and watching. A crimson carpet spilled down the grand stone steps like blood, and flashing cameras sparked against the darkness like lightning. Paparazzi buzzed like vultures, desperate to feed on devour every step, every whisper, every stolen glance of the elite arriving in their shimmering gowns and sharp tuxedos. From behind the velvet ropes, businessmen in tailored tuxedos and socialites in scandalous gowns laughed as though nothing in the world could touch them.
The troupe approached from the service entrance — a side reserved for performers and others. A cold metal detector stood between us and the heart of the event. One by one, the girls passed through. I could feel the small spy camera sewn into my gown's embroidery pressing against my skin like a warning.
Then it was my turn.
I held my breath as I stepped forward. Beep. A harsh buzz shattered the silence. My heart froze. The female guard's gaze locked on mine. Her brow arched — sharp, suspicious. Her eyes traveled down the length of my dress. Does she know? My fingers clenched around the veil hiding my face. "Don't worry," she finally said. "These new designer gowns — they're filled with metallic thread. Happens all the time." She patted me down with swift efficiency, her hands cold and clinical. My nerves screamed, but I kept my composure like ice under silk. After a pause, she gave a curt nod.
"You're clear. Go."
I slipped past the checkpoint, each step careful, deliberate, like walking a tightrope over the fire. Inside, the mansion unfolded — marbled floors that seemed to whisper secrets, walls heavy with stories and sins. The air was thick with perfume, wealth, and something darker. It smelled like danger. The party was just moments away. The stage was set. And behind it, we waited.
Backstage was a hidden world — dimly lit, buzzing with nerves and sprays. The other dancers flitted about like butterflies before a storm. I kept to myself, my eyes scanning every corridor, every exit, every camera. Where are you, Andrew?
Suddenly, a hand touched my shoulder. I froze.
"You okay, Mia? You're so quiet tonight," said a girl with soft curls and curious eyes. She smiled, but I saw the question buried in her glance. Mia. The name hit like an alarm in my chest — So that was her name. Mia.
The girl I replaced.
My heart skipped.
I couldn't speak. One word, and she might realize I was not who I claimed to be. So instead, I coughed gently, hiding behind the sound. Let it cover the silence that held too many lies. Before she could speak further, another girl clapped her hands. "Girls! Showtime. Let's go!"
The room exploded into motion. Glittering skirts swirled, perfumes clashed in the air, and stilettos clicked like loaded guns. I fell into step behind them, hidden in plain sight.
I glided through the corridor—unseen, yet everywhere. My eyes scanned every corner, every flicker of movement, every shadow that lingered too long. I wasn't just walking. I was memorizing. Mapping every exit, every suspicious glance, every piece of a puzzle waiting to be broken. The corridor spilled into a vast garden wrapped in golden lights. It was breathtaking—an illusion of paradise soaked in power. Fairy lights dripped from marble pillars like starlight, chandeliers floated like dreams, and champagne flowed like secrets.
It was beautiful.
But it was also dangerous.
Men in tailored suits laughed with calculated charm, and women in diamonds smiled with poison in their eyes. Business masked behind flirtation. Power traded beneath the laughter.
No one here was innocent.
And that's what made it perfect.
I moved with the rest of the troupe, my eyes constantly scanning. Where is Andrew Watson?
"Mia, take your position!" someone hissed from behind.
I blinked out of my daze. That name again—Mia. I nodded without speaking, careful not to say anything that would betray me. I took my place. Last in the row. A shadow among the stars. Then the lights dimmed. A soft golden glow poured over the stage, bathing us in radiance.
A voice echoed through speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen… let yourself be lost in the magic of music and movement."
Every head turned toward us.
The music began. We moved.
Hips like honey, arms like wind, our bodies flowed like water possessed by rhythm. Every step, every twirl was spellbinding. But I wasn't just dancing—I was hunting. My eyes darted through the crowd, searching for one man. The man.
Andrew Watson.
And then—everything shifted. Applause thundered mid-performance. A new announcement broke through the music: "And now… the charm of the evening, the King himself… Mr. Andrew Watson!" Time stilled. Footsteps echoed behind me—measured, powerful. I twirled with the music, and there he was.
Walking straight toward us. My heart stuttered.
He didn't just enter the room. He owned it. Every gaze bent toward him, not out of affection, but obligation. Even the air seemed to stiffen, as if it, too, feared him. He passed behind me, and I could feel the heat of his presence. Raw. Lethal. Magnetic. I held my breath as his shadow brushed over me. Then he stepped into the light, standing like a dark monarch beneath the chandelier's golden rain.
"Thank you for joining me tonight," he said, voice smooth and sharp like a blade in velvet. "Enjoy yourselves."
Simple words. But the crowd drank them like wine. People swarmed around him, desperate for even a glance of approval. The music resumed, and so did our dance, but now I was no longer searching. I had found him. And I couldn't tear my gaze away. My eyes devoured every detail—his slow, confident movements, the precise way he turned his head when someone spoke, the rare curve of his lips that never quite became a smile. The performance came to an end. Applause echoed. We bowed in grace, then drifted backstage like mist dissolving from a mirror. Behind the curtains, the air shifted—relaxed now. Laughter. High heels kicked off. Girls wiping sweat and touching up lipstick. The illusion of ease.
But I stayed silent.
In my mind, I was still dancing…
Not for applause.
But for war.
Carefully calculating my every step, I slipped away, hidden from every watchful eye. Once outside, security was everywhere—patrolling, scanning, alert. But I moved like a shadow, unseen and silent. Reaching the back of his house building, I searched—fast, sharp eyes tracing every edge—for an entry. But the windows mocked me. Locked. Guarded. Unwelcoming.
No problem.
Without hesitation, I took a step back, clenched my fist, and punched the glass near the lock. The window shattered with a soft, dangerous sound. I slipped my hand carefully through the jagged edge, ignoring the sting of a small cut, and unlatched the window from the inside.
Click.
Open.
I climbed in, quiet as a sigh.
But then— "Hey! Who the hell are you?!"
A guard. Armed. Eyes wide. Gun raised. His voice cut through the silence like a siren. I didn't speak. I moved. He raised his weapon, but my feet moved faster than I thought. I sprinted toward him, my heel pivoting as I spun and kicked the gun from his hand. The weapon clattered to the floor. He lunged. I ducked beneath his swing, my instincts razor-sharp. In one seamless motion, I launched upward, spinning mid-air with lethal grace. My leg whipped around, and the edge of my boot struck his neck with brutal precision. He staggered, choking, as the silence of the night swallowed his gasp.
He Dropped.
Before he could recover, I lunged forward, grabbed the gun, and slammed it against his skull.
Thud!!!.
He collapsed.
I stood tall, breathing shallow but steady. My hair loosened during the fight and fell across my back. I flicked it behind me with one elegant motion. Then, dragging him across the cold floor, I bound his wrists and gagged him with cloth, hiding his unconscious body beneath the heavy velvet curtains draped along the corner.
Then, I moved forward.
Faster.
From the hidden pocket inside the slit of my dress, I pulled out the map—folded into a secret as delicate as lace. Andrew's office can be beyond the next corridor. But as I turned the corner, my body froze.
Two guards. Standing. Talking. Armed.
I held my breath.
Then… they turned. Walked away. It's the perfect moment. The corridor was now clear. I moved like a shadow on fire—burning with purpose, leaving no trace. At last, I reached the long glass doors framed in black iron vines and gold trim.
Andrew Watson's office.
I could feel it. The weight of it. The silence behind the glass had a pulse of its own. I opened the door and stepped inside. And the moment I did, the air shifted. This wasn't just a room. It was a throne. A confessional. A battlefield disguised as beauty. The lights were dim, just enough to kiss the edges of every expensive surface. The walls were lined with dark books, old framed photographs, and weapons that didn't belong in plain sight. A blend of perfume and cigar smoke lingered, laced with something ancient—like the scent of history, decayed and dripping with sin.
It was modern. Elegant. But it carried the soul of something vintage and violent. My heels touched down on the floor, slow and soft. Each breath felt stolen as if the world might snatch it back at any second. The silence in here wasn't empty—it was full of whispers too scared to speak out loud.
I stepped further in, eyes drawn to his desk—a massive oak piece carved with dragons, vines, and a name etched beneath the glass:
Andrew Watson.
My fingers hovered over it. Just then, my reflection in the glass caught my gaze—my veil slightly slipping, my eyes fierce, unreadable.
I smiled.
Let's see what kind of king you are, Andrew," I whispered, voice a melody dipped in poison.
My fingers moved like whispers across the edges of drawers, scanning documents, lifting papers, and touching secrets without leaving a trace. The scent of old leather and cold steel lingered in the air, every shadow in the room stretching like it held a hidden truth. I was close—I could feel it. Somewhere in this office, Andrew Watson had buried his sins, and I was here to exhume them.
But then… I heard it.
Footsteps.
Not casual. Not hesitant. They were sharp. Measured. Coming closer.
My breath caught, my heart pausing for just a beat—but my body moved like instinct. I turned toward the desk and spotted it—a matte-black pistol, sleek and silent, resting on it. Without hesitation, I snatched it, the cold metal kissing my palm. I pressed the magazine release and checked: loaded.
The footsteps grew louder, now just outside the door. I moved fast, pressing myself flat against the wall. The golden glow of the chandelier flickered across the polished floor as I hid behind the half-open door, gun raised, breath held. My finger hovered near the trigger. My eyes sharpened like blades. The door creaked—slow, deliberate. I could feel the adrenaline slide through my veins like molten fire. My lips parted slightly. The silence was loud—screaming.
He's here.