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“Rheeeeaaa,” she sings, dragging out my name with dramatic flair. She scans me head to toe. “Happy birthday, you elegant little weapon. You look like you’re about to ruin a marriage and leave lipstick on the divorce papers.”

“Only if the prenup has loopholes,” I mutter, smoothing my dress like I didn’t already lint-roll it so hard it nearly disintegrated.

Lexi laughs, looping her arm through mine. “God, I love when you dress up. All this power, this mystery - it’s giving rich cousin with a secret.”

“It’s also giving heart palpitations and possibly heel-related death.”

She grins and lifts her glass. “Perfect. You brought your camera?”

I tap the strap over my shoulder. “Never leave home without my most expensive limb.”

“Thankgod. The other guy’s shooting on something that looks like it came free with a cereal box.”

She pulls me into a champagne-scented hug that leaves glitter on my face.

“Go make art, birthday girl,” she whispers. “And maybe snap some photos of that Apex executive in case I need leverage later.”

Before I can ask whether she’s joking, Lexi’s eyes flick toward the entrance.

“Heads up: we’ve got some very shiny guests tonight. One of the OMB board members just walked in.”

My stomach tightens. “Seriously?”

She nods, eyes gleaming. “Yep. Can’t imagine what the hell he’s doing here - probably just showing face for the press or whatever - but I amthrilled.I mean, come on: high-profile charity gala, lots of cameras, excellent lighting? Of course they all want in.”

I force a smile. “Lucky us.”

“Honestly, I hope half the Board shows up. I want them all on that step-and-repeat looking like overpaid Bond villains.”

I snort under my breath. “Not sure they’re your demo.”

“Everyone’s my demo if I’m working the angle right.”

She doesn’t notice the way I’ve gone quiet. Doesn’t clock the way my hands tighten slightly around the strap of my camera bag.

She’s too busy scanning the courtyard, too buzzed on champagne and political clout to see past the sparkle.

“You’re good though,” she says, already distracted. “You’ve got that ice-queen thing going on. Quiet, competent, slightly intimidating. Sexy but make it mysterious. Seriously, you're the poster girl for flying under the radar.”

“Right,” I murmur. “That’s me. Quiet. Sexy. Untraceable.”

She winks. “Exactly. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a venture capitalist with commitment issues standing too close to the fountain, and I feel like ruining someone’s night.”

And then she’s gone; glitter flashing, heels merciless, disappearing into the chattering crowd with the speed of gossip.

I’m left standing in her slipstream; breath tight, camera in hand, heels steady -

And Mask locked into place.

One hand on the grip, the other pressed just above the quiet flutter beneath my ribs.

*

The ballroom unfolds like a stage no one’s quite sober enough to perform on.

Vaulted ceilings. Chandelier light humming. Jazz music snaking through the air.

Everything shimmers. Everyone is overdressed, underfed, and pretending not to notice each other’s scent trails like they’re above it all.

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