Isla lifted her eyes when the door opened, her gaze running over him in a single, efficient assessment—less personal than professional. The uniform sat well on him. Too well. He didn’t quite look like the kind of man the Langham employed, but he looked close enough that no one would question it twice.

“Ready,” she said simply.

She adjusted her collar once with practiced fingers, then stepped aside so he could reach the door, already slipping into the subdued, neutral posture of staff. Her shoulders dropped, her expression emptied, her presence faded—Verity folding herself away in favor of someone who wasn’t meant to be noticed at all.

Before they left, she glanced at him again, just briefly.

“Remember,” she murmured, low enough that only he would hear, “eyes down, steps measured. We’re furniture until we’re not.”

Then she straightened, mask firmly in place.

“Let’s go.”

Isla didn’t let her breathing change when his fingers closed around hers.

It was practical. Directional. Necessary.

Still, it sent a short, sharp note up her spine that she immediately buried under movement and mission. She followed him without hesitation up the stairwell, already lifting the mask to her face when he handed it to her. The sharp, medical scent of chloroform hit her senses as she took the cloth, but her grip stayed steady.

Her pulse didn’t spike when she saw the Orlovs at the far end of the hall.

It flattened.

Predatory calm.

When Adrian lunged, Isla moved at the same instant, crossing the final distance in three quick steps. One arm locked around Aliana Orlov’s shoulders from behind, the other hand clamped the cloth over her mouth and nose. The woman struggled for half a second—heels scraping softly against marble, a muffled sound caught uselessly in fabric—but Isla tightened her grip and leaned her weight in, counting breaths the way she’d been trained.

One.

Two.

Three.

The tension melted from Aliana’s body like a wire snapping loose. Isla held her upright a moment longer, just to be sure, before lowering her carefully to the floor so she wouldn’t drop with a sound.

She peeled the cloth away, chest barely rising, eyes already lifting to confirm Adrien had Nikolai secured.

He did.

Good.

Isla crouched, pressing her fingers to Aliana’s throat. A steady pulse hinted back at her skin.

“Out cold,” she murmured quietly through the mask, her voice calm and clinical. “Give us a window, but not long.”

She reached for Aliana’s wrist and began checking for jewelry, ID, anything that didn’t belong to a woman about to be erased for the night.

And for just a flicker of a second—as she looked at the unconscious couple at their feet, stripped of identity and power alike—Isla wondered distantly how close they were to ending up the same way before this was all over.

Then she pushed the thought aside.

No room for ghosts.

“Let’s move them.”

Isla followed him into the storage room without a sound, the door clicking shut behind them like a held breath. The air inside was cold and faintly chemical, heavy with dust and linen—safe, for now.

She gave a short nod at his instruction and knelt beside Aliana, working quickly and efficiently, the way she always did when time was thin and consequences were thick. Gloves on. Jewelry off. ID tucked into a pocket for later disposal. She avoided looking at the woman’s face as she undressed her, keeping her focus on seams and fabric and speed.

“Good,” she murmured when she saw him turn away without being asked.

It mattered more than she let show.

Isla slipped into Aliana Orlov’s dress with practiced care, adjusting it at the waist, smoothing the fabric down over her hips. She stepped into the heels, testing her balance once, then straightened in silence. A quick check in a sliver of metal on the wall told her everything she needed—expensive, polished, convincing.

She gathered her uniform and folded it neatly, then tucked it away where it wouldn’t be found quickly.

When she’d finished, she drew in a steady breath.

“Done,” she whispered, voice steadier than she felt. “How do you look?”

Her eyes flicked once—not at him, but at the door.

Time was already moving again.

Isla didn’t hesitate.

Aliana wouldn’t.

She turned with a small, dramatic roll of her eyes that said men, but her smile was indulgent as she crossed the short distance and settled onto his lap. Not heavy, not distant—balanced exactly where it would look intimate without being sloppy. One heel hooked lightly behind his calf for show; one hand rested against his shoulder, the other smoothing over his sleeve like she was as much an accessory as his watch.

Inside, she clocked the room in a heartbeat: door placement, sheen of glass that meant mirror or window, the faint red sleep of a camera in the corner. No vents. No one else yet.

Outside, she laughed softly.

“Stunning?” she teased, tilting her head as if inspecting him in return. “Darling, you’re just saying that because I’m the only thing in this room that’s more expensive than you.”

Her fingers drifted to his tie, grazing it as though she might tangle it, but she stopped just short of moving it out of place. A show. Always a show.

Then, quieter—so quiet it rode the space between breaths rather than sound:

“Door’s our cleanest exit.”

She leaned in again, brushing her cheek against his in a mock-affectionate nuzzle.

“But do go on,” she murmured sweetly, voice brightening for any ears that might be listening. “Tell me how beautiful I am.”