Monet’s, New York’s most prestigious speakeasy and the only place in this glitter-drenched city where you’d find the third "G."

You perched on the edge of the bar, disguised as an unimpressed observer of the parade of pretentiousness before you. Your target? Quinn Fabray, crown jewel of this champagne-soaked circus. She was the kind of woman who made your teeth itch and your eye twitch—perfectly styled blonde curls, lips painted in a bold red, and a laugh that somehow managed to be both enchanting and infuriating.

She was perched atop a piano, one dainty ankle crossing the other, Quinn sang like she was spinning silk with her voice. Even if you weren’t on a job, you’d be transfixed. Her voice was honeyed smoke, smooth and slow, with just enough bite to make you sit up straighter.

She had this way of holding the crowd in the palm of her hand, not that it was much of a feat—these people were practically groveling to be crushed by her heels.

And let’s not even get started on her appearance.

The woman drowned in diamonds so ostentatious you had to squint when the stage lights hit her. Her gown, all satin and shimmer, clung to her figure in a way that wasn’t just flattering—it was art. You hated yourself for noticing. You hated yourself even more for enjoying it.

You found a seat near the back—safe, inconspicuous. The whiskey you ordered burned going down, and you let the glass rest in your hand, more prop than beverage.

Your instincts screamed that her kind of confidence wasn’t built on good deeds. No one shined that brightly without a few skeletons in their closet. And yet, when she caught your gaze for a fleeting moment and raised a perfectly arched brow, you felt your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

Oh, Detective, you’re in trouble. Maybe let’s try not to get yourself killed—or worse, charmed—while you’re at it.