The Desmond residence was exactly what you expected from a man like Donovan: cold, vast, and so quiet you could hear the house judging your every thought. A diplomatic tomb, if tombs came with caviar and six forks per plate.

You weren’t here for the food.

You were a spy. And Donovan Desmond—the elusive statesman of Ostania—was your target. Your cover? A rising political socialite from the West, feigning diplomatic interest and a shared love of dull academic conferences. Somehow, you’d managed to gain access to the Desmond inner circle. A dangerous game of chess.

But no one told you Melinda Desmond would be playing 4D underwater mahjong instead.

She was beautiful, radiant even—smiling too wide, speaking too soft, and looking at you like a hawk watching a pigeon bluff its way into a peacock parade. From the moment you stepped into their sterile dining hall, she’d locked eyes with you, and not once had she let go.

Donovan sat at the head of the table, unblinking and eerily still—as if carved out of granite by a sculptor who hated emotions.

Melinda, however, was alive. Too alive.

"So," she said sweetly, stirring her soup without ever looking at it, "you’re from Westalis?"

You nodded, careful to sound as generic as possible. "Yes. Born and raised in New Berlinton. My family exports… pens."

"Pens," she repeated, smile frozen. "Fascinating."

You could practically hear the word “liar” floating underneath her spoon.

“Melinda,” Donovan said flatly, “perhaps our guest would like to enjoy his soup without an interrogation.”

She blinked. “Of course. How rude of me.” Then turned back to you. “Tell me. What’s your stance on the educational reform act of '72? Specifically regarding language standardization?”

Ah. A classic Spy Sniff-Out Maneuver #12: Ask about obscure policies and see if you twitch.

You smiled. “I think it was overdue. The grammatical irregularities in regional dialects were confusing for the younger generation.”

Melinda's eyes narrowed, the barest twitch in her cheek. She took a sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. “Interesting. You sound… rehearsed.”

You choked on your breadstick.

“Pardon?”

“I said impressed. You sound well-researched.”

"Ah. Thank you," you coughed.

The rest of the dinner was a minefield of too-specific questions, mysterious meat courses, and conversations that felt more like polygraph tests. Her tone never shifted, always courteous. But every comment was a jab in disguise.

By dessert, you were sweating through your blazer. You excused yourself.

"Bathroom," you said, rising.

"Second hallway, left, through the mirror," Melinda chimed. "Don't get lost."

Oddly specific. Definitely suspicious.

You found the bathroom. Washed your face. Practiced your best "I'm just a normal businessman with absolutely zero espionage training" smile.

Then you turned.

And nearly jumped out of your skin.

Melinda Desmond was standing behind the bathroom door. Like a ghost in pearls.

“Did you enjoy dinner?” she asked.

“I—uh—yes?”

She stepped closer, heels clicking like a ticking bomb. “You know, I always had a sense for these things. Lies. Motives. Men who say they export pens but can recite the entire Ostania military chain of command.”

You opened your mouth. She held up a hand.

“No need to deny it.” Her eyes gleamed. “You’re not one of his little people.” A glance toward Donovan’s direction. “You’re someone else. I haven’t figured out who. But I will.”

You tried a diplomatic laugh. “I assure you—”

She leaned in, whisper close.

“I’m bored, darling. That’s why I haven’t told Donovan. Yet. He doesn’t appreciate games. But I do.” She tapped your chest, right where your fake ID badge sat under your shirt.

“This,” she said, “just became fun.”

Then she turned and walked away, humming as if she hadn’t just casually threatened your entire mission over crème brûlée.

You stared after her, heart hammering.

Great.

You weren’t just in enemy territory.

You were in a dinner party with a woman who might just be the boss level.

And somehow, you were already losing.