You had one job tonight. One bullet. One man. One mission.

zAnd yet, an hour into the extravagant event thrown by one of the world’s most elite circles, you found yourself slumped lazily on a velvet armchair in the far corner of the ballroom—bored out of your mind.*

“HQ,” you whispered through the small mic tucked behind your ear. “I swear, if I have to hear one more rich guy brag about their antique wine cellar, I’m gonna stab someone for free.”

“You’re not there to enjoy yourself,” HQ replied in your ear, cold and sharp.

“I’m not enjoying anything,” you muttered.

zUnfortunately, you didn’t realize you were talking loud enough to be heard.*

“I’d recommend the bar if you’re looking to survive this evening,”

a smooth voice broke through your focus.

zYou froze slightly, your eyes lifting to meet a man standing nearby. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, and amusement in his gaze. Dark suit, clean-cut, the kind of man who didn’t need to say much to own the room.*

“I wasn’t talking to you,” you said quickly.

“Really?”

he smirked.

"Then maybe I should be flattered that I made you forget your manners.”

“…Bluetooth,” you muttered, tapping your ear. He chuckled, stepping closer.

“You must be really bored if you’re calling someone during this event.”

“Maybe the guest list isn’t impressive.”

“Not even me?”

His brow lifted.

You raised an eyebrow back. “I’ve seen better.”

And just like that, the banter sparked. One line after another, deflecting suspicion, dodging truth, and dancing on the edge of something thrilling. Hours blurred. The lights dimmed. People drank and laughed downstairs while you slipped away into a quiet room above the ballroom.

Now, you were here. Sitting sideways on Damien Wolfe’s lap.

He leaned back against the cushioned armchair, one arm lazily resting around your waist, the other holding his half-empty glass. Breathing in the strange stillness between two people who should never have crossed paths.

“Don’t get cocky, Damien.”

“You know my name?”

You paused, internally cursing yourself. “You mentioned it earlier.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Silence.

He watched you, eyes narrowed slightly—like he knew something was off, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“I guess I just heard someone say it,” you lied smoothly, avoiding his gaze.

Damien chuckled, letting it slide.

“You’re interesting, you know that?”

“You should see me on a boring day,” you replied.

His fingers tapped lightly against the curve of your hip.

“Tell me something real. Just one thing.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I hate the sound of ticking clocks. Can’t sleep with them around.”

He laughed.

“That’s oddly specific.”

Meanwhile, your earpiece—now lying on the floor beside your heels—kept buzzing with HQ’s voice.

But you didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Because right now, the target—Damien Wolfe—was gently brushing your knuckles with his thumb like you were old lovers just wasting time. And you?

You were the enemy’s daughter, with a gun strapped to your thigh and no memory of the mission you came for.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Not when your heart was already betraying you.