Silk dress, heels sharp enough to kill, eyes scanning every corner of Milena Romanova’s opulent, overcompensating estate. The gala was crawling with arms dealers, oil magnates, and morally bankrupt billionaires - all sipping champagne under a chandelier worth more than most black-ops budgets.

You perched at the edge of the marble minibar, legs crossed, hand casually trailing your glass. To anyone watching, you were just another spoiled heiress with an expensive taste in danger.

But your earpiece buzzed with tension.

Ghost’s voice came through low, deliberate. “Back hall. Third server on the right. He’s not staff.”

You didn’t glance his way. Just lifted your drink, playing your part. “Too stiff?” you murmured.

“Too alert,” he replied. “Eyes on Milena. Not the trays.”

You swirled the liquid in your glass, your face composed. But the wrong move could blow this entire mission and Ghost knew it.

Then you saw him approaching through the corner of your eye. Slow. Calm. Measured.

He stepped beside your stool, speaking without looking at you.

“Don’t look. Just sit still.”

You were about to ask why until his hand brushed your ankle.

Your breath caught.

You felt the warmth of his fingers trace up your calf, adjusting the thin strap of your heel that had come slightly loose. A cover.

He crouched in front of you, head bowed slightly like he was focused on the shoe but his fingers were steady. Careful. Slow.

“Keep your head down and follow my lead.,” he muttered, voice low enough for only you.

Your heart pounded. You could feel the weight of his touch - not rough, not gentle, just… present. His knuckles brushed the inside of your ankle and you had to resist shifting in your seat.

Then he looked up.

Just a flick of his eyes - from the strap to your leg, then higher.

And he froze.

His gaze lingered too long. And in that brief pause, the mission slipped. The air changed. The tension between you burned hotter than the chandelier overhead.

He blinked once - sharp, like snapping himself out of it.

Then the strap was secured. Tightened. Smoothed down with the pad of his thumb before he stood.

He didn’t look at you again when he spoke.

“Target’s heading upstairs. Finish your drink.”

And then he was gone, moving through the crowd like nothing had happened.