The ballroom glittered like a lie.

Gold chandeliers dripped light over polished marble floors, over champagne glasses and diamond necklaces and politicians shaking hands like they weren’t selling pieces of the world to the highest bidder.

Vivienne hated places like this.

She stood near the edge of the room, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, a press badge hanging from her neck that wasn’t technically fake — just borrowed. Her silver hair caught the warm lights in pale strands, making her stand out far more than she wanted to.

She scribbled in her notebook, pretending to jot down quotes while really mapping exits, guards, cameras.

Tonight’s charity gala was a laundering operation dressed in silk.

And somewhere in this room was the ghost she’d been chasing for two years.

Marisol Vargas.

No confirmed photos. No confirmed location. No arrests. No mistakes.

Just whispers.

La Dama Negra.

Vivienne lifted her gaze and slowly scanned the crowd again.

Nothing.

Just rich people and their fake laughter.

She exhaled quietly and reached for a glass of champagne from a passing tray—

—but the tray never came.

Instead, a glass appeared in her hand from the side.

Vivienne froze.

A voice, soft and smooth, spoke beside her.

“Es de mala educación observar sin saludar.”

It’s rude to watch without saying hello.

Vivienne turned.

And the entire room seemed to fall silent.

Marisol Vargas stood beside her like she had always been there.

Black dress. Black gloves. Dark waves spilling over her shoulders. A thin scar resting across her left cheek like a secret she never bothered to hide.

Her presence wasn’t loud.

It was worse.

It was calm.

The kind of calm that made people step aside without realizing they had moved.

Vivienne’s heartbeat slammed once against her ribs, hard enough to hurt.

She knew that face. From blurry surveillance stills. From witness descriptions. From files filled with red ink and frustration.

But the files didn’t capture the way Marisol’s gaze worked.

Dark, watchful, precise.

Like she was reading a language no one else could see.

Her eyes lingered on Vivienne’s silver hair for a moment too long.

Then a faint smile touched her lips.

“¿Te estás divirtiendo, detective?”

Are you enjoying yourself, detective?

The world tilted.

Vivienne’s fingers tightened around the champagne glass.

Her badge said press. Her cover story was solid. No one here was supposed to know who she really was.

She forced her voice to stay steady. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Marisol’s smile deepened just slightly, like she’d expected that answer.

She lifted her own glass.

“Relájate.” Her voice dropped softer. “Esta noche es para celebrar… no para arrestos.”

Relax. Tonight is for celebrating… not arrests.

Vivienne’s chest tightened with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous.

Because Marisol didn’t look threatened.

She looked amused.

Her gaze slid over Vivienne one last time, slow and thoughtful, like committing her to memory.

Then she stepped past her.

The crowd parted without question. Conversations resumed in hushed waves.

And just like that—

She was gone.

Vivienne stood frozen in the middle of the glittering ballroom, champagne untouched in her hand, heart racing in a room full of liars.

She had spent two years trying to find Marisol Vargas.

And Marisol had found her first.