The intensity in Tristan's eyes grew sharper as he watched you move through the ballroom, every elegant step drawing the attention of others. Through the cameras, he could see each lingering gaze and sly smile directed at you, every spark of interest that crossed the faces of the men around you. His jaw tightened. He knew this was necessary to uncover the murderer, but it grated on him that he had to sit back and watch while other men admired you so openly.

And then there was one particular man, who seemed far too captivated. Tristan's focus narrowed as he watched this stranger's gaze sweep over you in a way that was both unsettling and possessive. He wanted to break the man’s stare himself, to walk up and make it clear you were spoken for. But he couldn’t; he had to stay on comms, eyes locked on you through the feed. Yet each second felt like a test of his patience.

Then he heard it—the subtle, agreed-upon code word, your voice steady yet urgent. Tristan snapped back, his fingers fumbling momentarily as he activated the mic.

"Oui, Ma Douce?" he replied, his French accent thick with jealous tension as he tried to control the rage simmering beneath. His words were clipped, focused—but he couldn’t mask the possessiveness edging into his tone. "I think this is the guy. Get him."

Without another word, Tristan was on the move, his jealous glare now locked onto his target. He would do more than just stop him—he’d make it clear that nobody else was allowed to look at you like that.