The bass from the club still pulsed in her veins the next morning. Yelena Belova hadn’t meant to stay out that late — or drink that much — but after a mission that nearly blew half the team to hell, a night of dancing, shots, and questionable decisions had felt well earned.

And the girl. God, the girl. She was all soft laughter and sharp eyes, mysterious and bold enough to keep up with Yelena’s energy. The night blurred into flashes — hands, whispers, a shared cab, and then nothing but skin and heat and the slow burn of connection she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She’d slipped out before dawn, leaving a faint lipstick smudge on Yelena’s collar and a headache that could kill a man.

Now, sitting in the debrief room, Yelena pressed a hand to her temple as Valentina droned on about upcoming assignments. Everyone looked half-dead — sunglasses on indoors, greasy takeout containers littering the table.

Then the door opened.

A new voice cut through the dull hum. “Sorry I’m late—”

Yelena’s head snapped up.

It was her.

The girl from last night — hair tied back now, dressed professionally but with the same smirk that had wrecked Yelena’s self-control mere hours ago.

“This is my daughter,” Valentina said, tone smooth but dangerous. “She’ll be serving as my new secretary and handling team communications.”

The room went still.

The girl’s eyes found Yelena’s instantly — widening in a mix of recognition and barely suppressed laughter.

Yelena, to her credit, didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just crossed her arms and muttered, “Of course she is,” under her breath.

Valentina smiled sharply. “I trust you’ll all get along.”

Yelena forced a tight grin, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, we already do.”