The mirror didn't lie.

Lelia stared at her reflection , her lips painted a shade too bold for her taste…blood red, the type that whispered danger and invitation all at once. The silk dress clung to her skin like its own pulse, its own rhythm, a quiet heartbeat that didn't belong to her. Every part of her looked like she belonged to the world she was about to walk in…confident, expensive, untouchable. Only her eyes betrayed her, they trembled just a little, like they hadn't learned how to lie

“Breathe,” she murmured to herself, slipping one earring on, then the other. Her fingers trembled even though she forced a smile at her reflection.

“You've done worse.”

But she hadn't. Not like this.

The gala wasn't her world. It belonged to people who smiled like a secret, who made war sound like an investment and betrayal look like art. She could almost taste the money in the air, thick and perfumed and heavy with something poisonous. The kind of air that suffocated people like her if they stayed too long.

Her reflection almost laughed at her. The woman in the mirror didn't look like the girl who had once slept in safehouses with a gun under her pillow. That girl had dirt under nails, a bruise on her cheeks, and the kind of hunger that came from fighting for survival. The one who wore diamonds. Maybe that was a joke, the disguise had eaten her whole.

Her job tonight was simple…walk in, be seen, be forgotten. That was the plan.

Yet, plans had a way of burning when Xander Moreno was in the room.

Her pulse jumped at the sound of his name echoing in her mind. The man was a rumor wrapped in flesh, dangerous, beautiful in a brutal way, the kind that could make silence feel like a threat. She had seen his photo before, in files she wasn't supposed to read. But no photograph prepared her for what the man felt like in person.

She could still remember the first time she saw his file, the way the agent beside her had whispered.

“Don't ever get close to that one,” but here she was, dressed like a lie, walking into his territory. Maybe she had stopped listening to warnings a long time ago.

He wasn't just danger. He was gravity…pulling, consuming, and impossible to ignore.

She turned away from the mirror, the slit of her gown catching the light as she walked. Every moment had to be deliberate, perfect, and controlled. She had learned long ago that fear could be hidden under the right shade of lipstick.

Her hands brushed against the tiny transmitter sewn into her clutch. It was off. She didn't trust signals anymore. Not after Berlin. Not after Ethan. The name hit her chest like a stone, but she forced the memory back where it belonged, behind locked ribs and a painted smile.

The hallway outside her hotel room smelled like old perfume and polished marble. Her heels clicked softly as she walked, the echo keeping time with her heartbeat. By the time she reached the car downstairs, her mask was fully in place…the poised stranger who never flinched.

Even the driver didn't dare look at her. Good. Fear was useful. She had learned that too.

The moment she walked through the ballroom door, the noise hit her. Laughter, glass clicks, the low hum of string quartet. Gold light spilled over everything like honey. People glided across the marble, their smile too practiced, their laughter too sharp. Every gaze was a question. Who is she?

Lelia didn't falter. She couldn't.

The marble floor reflected her every step as if the ground wanted to remember her. Men whispered. Women judged. The air changed when she passed as if the music had lost its rhythm for a heartbeat.

Then she felt it. That invisible pull. The weight of a gaze before she even looked up.

High above the ground, at the mezzanine rail, a tall figure stood motionless…Xander Moreno. The name that made nations nervous.

His suit was black, his expression unreadable, his posture one of someone who didn't need to move to control the room. He didn't blink. His eyes…cold, dark, deliberate found hers through the smoke and light.

Her chest tightened. She didn't look away.

If she looked away first, he would know and she can't afford him to know anything. So she walked past him like he didn't exist. Like her heart wasn't betraying her with every beat.

Each step felt heavier than the last. She could feel his eyes burning through the back of her skull even when she turned a corner. It was ridiculous. She had trained not to feel, not to fear, not to let adrenaline show, and yet something about his stare made her forget all the rules.

Somewhere behind her, she could almost hear a voice…Victor’s maybe, saying something to Xander. She didn't have to turn to notice she had been noticed.

That was both the goal and the mistake.

By the time she reached the far end of the ballroom, she had mapped the exits, memorized the guard rotation, noted the angles of every mirror and chandelier. Old habits never died. They just dressed in red.

Her champagne glass trembled as she reached for it. She blamed the cold, not the man still watching her from above.

“Beautiful dress,” someone said beside her, voice smooth and rehearsed.

Lelia smiled faintly, not meeting his gaze.

“It's a borrowed life,” she murmured, then slipped away before the man could ask what that meant.

Because when she risked one last glance towards the mezzanine, Xander was gone.

And that scared her more than seeing him.

Gone meant movement. Gone meant she had been marked. And if he was anything like the story said, he didn't lose sight of things he wanted to find again.

The night blurred after that. Faces, laughter, the faint buzz of champagne she barely drank. When she finally stepped into the cold, the city air hit her lungs like freedom and fear mixed together.

Later that night, in the quiet of a borrowed suite, Lelia stood in front of another mirror, this one cracked at the corner, the light to dim to flatter. She pulled off the wig and set it on the sink. Her finger shook as she unbuckled her heels one by one, her skin smelled of rose and danger.

She caught her reflection again…bare, flushed, and tired. She didn't look like the woman in red anymore. She looked like herself again. And herself was terrified.

“This wasn't another mission,” she whispered to the empty room.

Ethan's word echoed in her head- get close, find the link, and get out before Moreno even knows your name.

Too late for that.

She closed her eyes and could almost hear his voice again. Low, steadying, promising they’d end this together. But promises didn't survive bullets. The silence that followed was louder than anything in the city.

She pressed a hand against her chest where her heart hadn't slowed. Because of one fleeting second, when their eyes met, she had felt something she didn't want to name. He hadn't just seen her disguise, he had seen her.

And that was never supposed to happen.

Outside, the city moved on, sirens in the distance, car horns, someone laughing loudly down the street. Life continued. But she couldn't move.

Because somewhere out there, the man she had planned to deceive was already looking for her. And Lelia knew one thing for sure.

The next time their eyes met, she wouldn't just be the woman in red.

She would be the reason he bled.

The heater buzzed weakly in the corner, fighting the chill that crawled into the room. Lelia reached out and turned it off. Silence filled the space like a confession. Somewhere outside thunder rolled, soft, distant, but steady. She smiled faintly to herself, small and tired.

“Let him come,” she whispered.

“Let him try,” then she leaned back on the bed, eyes open, waiting for the morning she didn't want to meet.