"And you are? Oh, wait—I remember you from the bar. You're Ksenia's acquaintance, aren't you? Here to ask me for medical expenses?" Henry stood there in his pajamas, his voice dripping with provocation.
Lu Jiting's face darkened instantly. He knew exactly who this was: the man who had broken his nose. Drawing himself up with the righteous indignation of a rightful lover, Lu Jiting glared back. "And who the hell are you?"
"I'm her boyfriend, Henry Courtney." Henry extended his hand with an easy, confident air.
A silent bolt of electricity crackled between them.
"Boyfriend?" Lu Jiting ignored the hand. He looked past Henry's shoulder at Ksenia. "If you're her boyfriend, I assume you know what she likes and what she loathes?"
"Of course," Henry said flatly.
"She loathes chauvinists. Like right now—you aren't giving her a chance to speak; you're treating her like a damsel in distress. Second, she hates bars. You're the one who dragged her to one, aren't you?"
The smile vanished from Henry's face. He paused, then countered sharply, "Then you should know that when you love someone, you change for them. Ksenia likes me, so she agreed to go to the bar. And it's not that I'm not giving her a chance to speak—it's that she simply doesn't want to talk to you."
Ksenia watched the debate without intervention. Part of her hoped Lu Jiting would swing at Henry; then he'd be deported, and her life could return to its usual orbit.
But Lu Jiting didn't swing. He stood silent, his face contorted as the mixture of love and hatred manifested as a physical, suffocating pain.
"What's wrong with you? Should I call an ambulance?" Henry's question wasn't a taunt this time.
Beads of sweat rolled down Lu Jiting's face despite the autumn chill. He slumped to the floor, the frantic meowing of the kitten in the carrier acting as a catalyst for his agony. He gasped for air, looking up with a panicked expression. Ksenia's emotionless gaze was, as always, his greatest nightmare.
"Henry, let him rest on the sofa for a moment," Ksenia said.
It was Lu Jiting's old ailment—shortness of breath and sharp pains in his left ribs whenever he was overworked or emotionally overwhelmed. The first time Ksenia had seen it, she had been terrified.
Back then, he had asked if she would stay by his side forever.
How had she answered? She remembered the artificial hills in the courtyard, the pavilions, the high-and-mighty sneer of Madame Lu, the high walls, and the fallen flowers.
"No," she had said. "I won't."
Having Henry and Lu Jiting in the same room was a headache. But that headache was eclipsed when the Loughton Security Bureau called.
First Ksenia, then Henry, and finally, even Lu Jiting received the summons.
The interrogation room smelled of sterile authority under the harsh buzz of white fluorescent lights.
"Hello. I'm Christine, an agent with M-6. I'll be conducting this interview."
"M-6?" Ksenia knit her brows.
"Yes. This incident might be linked to the park bombing last month—that's my project."
Christine was striking—broad forehead, dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and sun-kissed skin that spoke of years in the field. In her uniform, she stood at 5'6", radiating a composed, formidable energy. She stood in front of Ksenia, blocking out most of the light.
"I've reviewed your statement. You were the one who invited Martin Sharon, correct?" Christine's voice was calm, her pace steady.
"Yes."
"I'd like to see your chat logs with him again."
Ksenia handed over her phone. As Christine scrolled through Martin's lewd, flirtatious messages, her expression soured. She handed the phone back quickly.
"The file says you invited him as a way to reject him. Besides you, who else knew he would be attending?"
"I told the manager," Ksenia replied. "Since Martin Sharon was a major retail CEO and a former donor, we had to ensure he had the best seats. The manager then told the rest of the dancers to keep everyone on their toes."
"So, the entire company knew," Christine noted, frowning. "Stay calm, Miss. Just tell the truth. Henry Courtney and Ella Bowman mentioned you received a letter containing sulfur before you went on stage. Is that true?"
"It is," Ksenia said, keeping her breathing even.
"Do you know who sent it?"
"Likely a prank from another dancer. Does this have anything to do with the case?" Ksenia looked up, noticing a faint scar at the tail of Christine's eyebrow.
"We'll determine that after the investigation. We've searched every bin and haven't found the letter. What did you do with it?"
"I flushed it down the toilet. It was a hazardous substance, after all."
Christine scribbled in her notepad. "Martin Sharon's death is riddled with anomalies. I'm sure you don't want to live in a city that could blow up at any moment. So far, the theater's surveillance shows nothing unusual. The bomb was planted under the seat—no prints, no traces. The suspect is either a professional cleaner or someone within the ballet company."
"But if it was a timed bomb, the culprit could have planted it days ago," Ksenia suggested. "They might not have even been in the audience."
Christine looked up. "True. But who would have known Martin Sharon's exact seat information? A hacker... or someone on the inside. Did you see anyone suspicious during rehearsals? Maintenance workers? Janitors?"
"No. I focus on my work. I don't pay attention to anything else."
"If you were an audience member," Christine continued, "would you leave your seat during a performance to use the restroom or buy a drink?"
"Perhaps."
"We found that the bomb wasn't just on a timer; it could be detonated remotely. That implies someone was in the theater, watching the target, waiting for the moment he was in his seat and alone. So, Miss, if you remember seeing anyone suspicious, let me know."
"I've told you everything I know."
Christine closed the file. "Very well. Miss, if you are being isolated or bullied within the company, I suggest you seek legal aid." For a split second, Christine's eyes softened, before snapping back into professional mode. "That's all for now. Do not leave Loughton. If the Bureau calls, report immediately."
When Christine led her out, a row of dancers sat at the end of the hallway, grumbling. Lu Jiting had apparently already left; she couldn't see him anywhere. Only Henry was still there.
By the time they left the Bureau, night had fallen. In the passenger seat, Ksenia opened her phone to a barrage of push notifications. Somehow, the paparazzi had obtained her chat logs with Martin Sharon.
"X-Country Prima Ballerina Suspected as Martin's Mistress: Is She Linked to His Death?"
"The Ballet Power Couple: True Love or PR Stunt?"
"What are you looking at?" Henry asked as he drove. "There are snacks in the back if you're hungry."
"I'm not hungry. I don't know how the press got hold of this. They're saying I was Martin Sharon's mistress."
Henry's expression turned grim. "They're vultures. I'll talk to my uncle and see if he can handle this. For now, stay off social media."
Ksenia didn't care about the scandal—she only cared if it would interfere with her hidden mission.
"I think Martin's wife had the best motive," Henry said. "He was a serial cheater, and they were in a nasty divorce. Or maybe an employee? He was a bully. But none of them were at the theater. Maybe they hired a 'cleaner'?"
"Why don't you think it was someone in the company?" Ksenia asked tentatively.
"Because we live for the stage. Killing someone in the theater benefits no one. I told the interrogator the same thing. It has to be the wife. She hired a professional."
Ksenia didn't reply. She had chosen the theater as the kill zone because she was following orders. She had forgotten how much the stage meant to a dancer.
The car didn't stop at her apartment. Instead, Henry pulled up to a pet shop.
"Are you two looking for a dog or a cat?" a cheerful clerk asked.
Ksenia stopped in front of a Siberian Forest cat. Its green eyes were wild and defiant; its thick fur looked soft.
"Meow." It pawed at the glass door.
It wants freedom, Ksenia thought.
"Do you like this one?" Henry asked. "I think having her around will help you stop thinking about the rumors online."
Ksenia let out a soft laugh. "You're just reacting to that man from earlier, aren't you?"
"I'm not. I've wanted to get you a cat for a long time. Let me do this for you, Ksenia." Henry's eyes were full of sincerity.
When they returned to Ksenia's apartment, the basket of roses was still by the door.
"Want me to throw those out for you?" Henry asked.
"Go ahead and set the cat up first."
Ksenia's eyes were sharp. She noticed a small slip of paper tucked deep inside the flower basket.
"Next mission: Accept the party invitation. Enter the manor."