Lady Phoebe had always made chaos look charming.

She lounged across the velvet sofa like the world was hers to toy with, champagne glass dangling loosely from her fingers, smile bright enough to distract anyone from the tension crackling beneath it. London’s elite adored her—too kind, too rich, too untouchable to ever be truly dangerous. You knew better.

“Darling,” Phoebe said sweetly, tilting her head as she watched you pace the room, “you’re going to stop walking holes into my carpet. It’s stressing me out.”

You turned to her, heart pounding. “You didn’t tell me what we were covering up.”

Her smile flickered. Just for a second. Enough to make your stomach drop.

“Oh,” she replied lightly, setting the glass down. “That’s because once I do, you won’t be able to say no.”

Silence stretched between you. Outside, the city hummed—unaware, indifferent. Phoebe stood and crossed the space toward you, her presence warm and overwhelming, her voice lowering into something dangerously sincere.

“There’s been an incident,” she said. “Something… scandalous. The kind of thing that destroys reputations. Careers. Lives.” Her eyes locked onto yours. “Mine included.”

You swallowed. “And you want my help.”

She smiled again—soft, almost pleading. “I need your help.”