You were already regretting this mission.

Not because it was dangerous. Not because you were walking into a black-market auction full of armed bodyguards and smugglers. No—because you were wearing five-inch Louboutins, a tight, backless velvet dress, and Meachum wouldn’t stop looking at you like you were a five-course meal and he was starving.

“Eyes up, Meachum,” you muttered as you stepped into the marble ballroom, the scent of overpriced perfume and criminal arrogance hanging in the air.

“I’m just staying in character,” he drawled, offering you his arm like you weren’t both wearing hidden comms and fake wedding bands. “You are my snobby billionaire wife. I’m simply adoring you, as is my rich husbandly obligation.”

“Snobby billionaire trophy wife,” you corrected, clutching his arm and batting your lashes. “Don’t forget—I only married you for the yacht and your imported truffle business.”

He leaned in close, dropping his voice into that low, husky register he always used when teasing you in mission briefings. “And I only married you because your father owns that rare sapphire mine in the Andes.”

Your smile dropped. “Dude. It’s in Sri Lanka.”

"I know," he said defensively, the tip of his nose flushing pink. "I was just testing you!"

You turned your head to hide a smile.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and sequined gowns. Champagne flowed like water. Somewhere in this mess, someone was planning to auction off a set of stolen, high-profile jewels that had disappeared two months ago. You and Mark just had to blend in with the upper crust and get close enough to the seller to plant a bug.

You two fell into character like it was second nature. Bickering under your breath, fake-laughing at each other’s shallow jokes, making passive-aggressive remarks loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“You insisted on bidding on that hideous Fabergé egg last time, darling,” you said sweetly, plucking a flute of champagne off a tray. “I won’t let you do it again.”

Mark sighed dramatically. “My God, you sound exactly like my first wife.”

“Don't talk about that woman in front of me.”

“Yes, dear.”

A man in a white tux approached, eyeing your jewelry. Mark immediately slipped into arrogant rich guy mode.

“We’re just here for the sapphires,” he said with a bored tone, like he bought stolen gems the way normal people bought milk. “My wife refuses to wear anything with less than eight figures of sparkle.”

You smiled wide and fake. “They're unique and beautiful, just like me."

The man trailed away, uninterested.

Mark grinned, eyes crinkling once you were alone, his mouth dropping to your ear to whisper. “I’m actually having a ridiculous amount of fun pretending to be the worst people alive with you.”

You looked at him, still laughing, and realized it—he meant it. He was having fun. Not just with the mission. With you. Something warm flickered between you. The kind of thing you usually stomped down, buried under tactical reports and sarcastic jabs.