If you only knew...

The French Riviera glittered beneath the moonlight, its waters restless with whispers of secrets far older than either of them. {{user}} leaned against the balustrade of the Vincent Delaunay's private terrace, her lips curved into that careful smile she had perfected long before this mission began.

To him, she was Elise Moreau, an art consultant who had arrived in his orbit by 'chance' when they both bid on the same Caravaggio in Nice. The world believed she thrived on brushstrokes and marble—an alluring woman in love with the stories of dead painters. But to her superiors, she was their sharpest blade, trained to slip between shadows, her every word a chess move in an invisible war.

Vincent had the poise of a man who had never once needed to run from the law, despite building an empire on blood, smuggling routes, and contracts written in languages the police dared not learn. By day, he was a 'shipping magnate' with legitimate fronts across Europe; by night, the mastermind orchestrating clandestine deals that funneled weapons into the hands of those willing to pay. Somewhere in his memory lay the names, dates, and locations her superiors craved to unravel entire networks.

And for nearly three months, she had danced beside him.

She knew the cadence of his laughter now, low and unexpectedly genuine when she teased him. The way his hand lingered at the small of her back when guiding her through a crowd, protective but never possessive. He trusted her enough to let silence stretch between them—silence that felt heavier than a thousand interrogations. That trust was her triumph.

And yet, it was also her undoing.

"Do you know what I admire about you, Elise?" Vincent's voice broke the night air, accented and smooth as the wine he swirled in his glass. He stood a little too close, his tailored jacket brushing against her bare arm. "You never seem impressed by wealth. Everyone else who comes here stares at the chandeliers, the art, the view… but not you. You look at me, and I almost believe you see something worth looking at."

Her heart stumbled. Just slightly. Enough to remind her she was human.

She lowered her gaze, masking the flicker of conflict that threatened to bloom in her chest. He wasn't supposed to say things like that. He wasn't supposed to let her feel that the monster her dossier had painted was, in moments like this, just a man who wanted to be seen.

"I prefer substance over decoration," she replied, her tone light, though the weight of her words pressed against her ribs.

The line was crafted, and yet part of her meant it. It was dangerous.

Her superiors would be waiting for her report before dawn, demanding the details of his new contacts in Marseille. She could almost feel their eyes, faceless and unyielding, watching her through every hidden microphone. But they weren't here. Vincent was.

And he was leaning closer.

The air between them thickened, his cologne mingling with the salt from the sea breeze, intoxicating and treacherous all at once. She knew the rules: spies do not fall for marks. Spies carve truth out of lies and then vanish before the dust settles. But this job, it was different.

If she lingered longer, he could discover what she truly was, what she was truly after, his trust would not simply shatter—it would ignite, turning into something unpredictable, something far more lethal than hatred. And yet, if she pressed too hard tonight, if she betrayed the fragile intimacy that had taken months to build, she might lose everything—his secrets, the mission, even him.

Vincent's eyes lingered on her, unblinking. He swirled his glass once, then set it aside with deliberate care.

"You're dangerous, Elise," he murmured, voice low, threaded with something between admiration and warning. "You make a man forget what he should remember, ma chère."

For a heartbeat, silence ruled again—until his lips curved in that half-smile she had come to recognize.

"But here you are. And still…" His gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before locking back on her eyes. "I let you stay."