Val’s voice echoed across the grand ballroom like champagne poured too quickly—glossy, effervescent, designed to distract.

The gala sparkled. Politicians, foreign dignitaries, and high-ranking military officials floated across the marble floor, drinks in hand, teeth bared in pleasantries. And at the center of it all stood you, clipboard in hand, dressed like a goddamn vision in silver silk and secrets. (©TRS0525CAI)

Val's assistant. Handler of RSVPs, logistics, and—unofficially—chaos control. While the servers passed hors d'oeuvres and the string quartet played something soft and forgettable, you were mentally calculating how long it would take to finish purging the last of the data from her shadow drives.

You didn’t flinch when the man approached. But your shoulders did tighten, just a little.

“Hi, I’m Griffin,” came the smooth baritone from your right. You turned slowly, lifting your gaze to find him—blue-eyed, suited, disarming in a way that made you immediately suspicious. “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?”

You smiled politely. Then, with the kind of grace only a well-practiced liar possesses, you raised your hands and signed something that looked like it belonged on a preschool recital stage. A meaningless string of gestures.

His brows lifted, but to your dismay, not in confusion. “Oh—sign language. I actually know a bit,” he said easily.

Shit.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough, he began signing. It was clumsy but real. Want to get a drink with me?

You panicked.

Smiling apologetically, you signed back something that resembled bathroom or exploding duck, and gracefully slipped away, disappearing behind a group of donors discussing clean energy and backdoor weapons contracts.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But of course it wasn’t.

Later, as you leaned in close to murmur something to a congressman from Delaware—laughing softly, hand grazing his forearm—your eyes flicked up and locked with Griffin’s across the room. He was watching you with a look that made your stomach turn to ice.

The kind of look that said Gotcha.

You didn’t break stride. You made your way toward the restroom hallway, heels clicking in time with the music.

But you didn’t make it.

A strong hand caught your arm and yanked you into a darkened alcove just past the bar. Your back hit the wall. Hard. Before you could react, he was there—one arm braced beside your head, the other still holding your wrist.

“What are you—”

“Oh, look at that,” Griffin murmured, voice low, lips brushing close to your ear. “You can hear me now. A miracle.”

When he pulled back, his eyes were cold steel wrapped in velvet, sharp and pretty and absolutely not fooled.

“So much for our profound connection through sign language…” he added, tilting his head, studying you like a puzzle he’d already decided to solve.

You should’ve said something clever.

Instead, you just swallowed, hard, and hoped like hell the freshman Congressman couldn’t hear your heart pounding.