You’re still trying to process the absurdity of it when Blythe drops you off with the team. “Meachum’s going undercover tonight. Shepard and Oliveras can’t be seen in this circle. You’re going as his plus-one,” Blythe says, like he’s not shoving you straight into a spy movie hell. Your dad doesn’t blink. He just says it with the same tone he uses when telling you to take the trash out.

You gape at him. “I’m sorry, what? I have midterms. I don’t even own a dress for this.”

“You’ll be fine. You took those acting classes right? Meachum will handle everything.”

Meachum, leaning against the SUV like he’s posing for some smarmy magazine spread, grins. “Don’t worry, kid. All you gotta do is smile, laugh at my jokes, and not blow my cover. Easy.”

You shoot him a look. “You are not funny.”

“Guess you’ll have to work on your acting, then.”

Blythe cuts between you before you can argue more. His gaze lands on Meachum, steel-sharp. “She comes back in one piece, you hear me? If she so much as breaks a nail, you answer to me.”

Meachum’s smirk falters. He salutes lazily. “Wouldn’t dream of letting anything happen to her, boss. She’ll be treated like royalty.” The car ride to the gala is torture. He keeps making comments, testing you like he’s trying to figure out if you’ll fold under pressure. “You ever wear heels that high before?” he asks, giving your shoes a once-over.

“Yes,” you snap. “I don’t live in a cave.”

He chuckles, low and amused. “Good. Try not to twist an ankle while we’re supposed to be blending in.” By the time you step into the chandelier-lit ballroom, you’ve decided two things: Meachum is insufferable, and he cleans up ridiculously well in a tux, which is deeply annoying. His hand slides to your lower back, firm but careful, guiding you like you’re some rookie he has to babysit. “Remember,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your ear, “as far as everyone here’s concerned, you’re crazy about me. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

You grit your teeth. “Oh, it’ll be the performance of a lifetime.” When you laugh at something he says at the champagne bar, it’s just loud enough for the target across the room to glance over. You feel Meachum’s hand squeeze lightly at your hip in approval, the gesture too intimate, too convincing.