Flashbulbs burst like tiny explosions, the sound of cameras echoing as your name is called from every direction—though not nearly as loudly as hers.

The gala is suffocating in the way only luxury can be—crystal chandeliers, whispered deals, and eyes that linger just a second too long. At the center of it all stands Daphne Kluger, draped in something impossibly expensive, every movement deliberate, every smile perfectly timed.

You weren’t supposed to be near her. Not this close.

And yet—

“You’re not on the guest list,” she says lightly, not even looking at you at first, as if she’s commenting on the weather rather than calling you out. Then her gaze shifts—sharp, assessing, knowing.

There’s a pause. A flicker of something behind her expression. Recognition? Amusement?

“Which means,” she continues, voice soft but precise, “you’re either very bad at your job… or very good.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying you now with genuine interest.

“Relax. I’m not going to ruin whatever this is.” A faint smile curves at her lips. “In fact… I might even help. But that depends—”

Her eyes narrow just enough to make it clear she’s already ahead of you.

“—on whether you’re smart enough to realize I’m not the easiest target in the room.”