Page 93 of Mission Shift

“Come now, try it on,” she said, motioning to the dress. “We need to do some final adjustments so that it will hug your curves just right.”

I hated that there were cameras everywhere. No doubt some pervert got off on it every time I changed clothes.

Stepping in front of the full-length mirror in the room’s corner, I quickly pulled off my oversized shirt and slipped into the dress. It was beautiful. Too bad it was meant for such nightmarish circumstances.

Svetlana moved behind me, reaching for the measuring tape around her neck. She worked in silence, pinning fabric where needed and adjusting the bodice to fit my torso with meticulous care. But her fingers, quick and deliberate, did more than just work to tailor the dress.

She shifted slightly, and I felt the weight of something as she adjusted its position inside the dress.

My pulse ticked up.

Hidden pockets.

“Your passport and IDs are sewn into the lining of the skirt,” she murmured, pretending to adjust the zipper at the top of my spine. “There’s money inside the waist seam and a small blade in the bodice’s ribbing.”

She stepped back and spun me around. “Your mother’s pearls will be the perfect embellishment…and”—she leaned in next to my ear—“convenient for you to take with you.”

I walked to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer where I had hidden the delicate strand of pearls. They gleamed under the dim light. This was a piece of my mother I would always cherish.

I handed them to Svetlana, and she clasped them around my neck.

“They’re safe,” I said, twisting the strand around my finger.

Svetlana nodded. “Here, I brought you a list of the dignitaries who will attend and a little something about each one. Make sure you think through how to greet them each properly.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She passed it to me and then unzipped the dress.

The dress pooled at my feet. I stepped out and grabbed my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion.

Svetlana snatched up the dress and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back in a little while with your dinner,” she said as the door closed.

I curled up on the bed and opened the paper she’d given me.

A map.

My breath caught, and I nonchalantly stuck it in the book sitting on the nightstand. I’d have to wait until I could open it in a way that would ensure no one watching via the cameras could see.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the book on the nightstand. The map was inside, waiting. But with my father’s lackeys watching my every move, I had to be careful.

I ran a hand through my hair. If I looked at it too soon, too obviously, it would cost me everything.

I needed a reason to move, to shift positions, to take the book somewhere the cameras couldn’t see.

I glanced at the window.

Perfect.

Pushing off the bed, I grabbed the book and made my way over, making a show of fanning myself as if the room had suddenly become unbearably warm. With a huff, I unlatched the window and pushed it open, letting in the cool evening air.

Below, a guard stood near the edge of the garden, smoking lazily. I lifted a hand and waved, offering him a small, distracted smile. He barely reacted, only nodding in acknowledgment before turning to leave.

Good.

With the book in hand, I leaned out, resting my elbows on the wide stone sill as if enjoying the fresh air. I flipped through the pages, letting them flutter slightly as I pretended to read, my fingers skimming across the lines of text.

In reality, I studied the map.

Svetlana had sketched the layout of Malinov’s estate. It showed everything—the main ballroom, guest areas, staff quarters, and—most importantly—the perimeter, security stations, and exits.

My eyes locked onto the west wing—to a bathroom on the ground floor where she had noted there was a small window leading out. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

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