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"My most recent film was a big success." I stand up, suddenly feeling this ridiculous urge to defend myself, as if her opinion matters.

"Well, what do you want? A gold star?"

I look at myself in the mirror, at the stunning figure that I strike. I square my shoulders and lift my chin.

I am a queen.

But am I a coward?Ask her.

"I wanted to ask you a question.”

"Well, spit it out."

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Silence. "That's a rude question."

"I'm not trying to be rude. I just want to know when you were a kid and..."

"And the Nazis wiped out my entire family. Did I kill any of them?" There's anger in her voice, old rage seething. The kind of anger you can never fully release.

Could it be so strong that it’s passed down in our DNA? My mother was the opposite of angry—shy and compliant. All she strived for was to make everyone around her comfortable and happy. She wanted a normal life, and she got it as best she could. Married my father, who was as cornfed as America makes them, and worked hard.She lived the American dream too.

I read about a study that found fear was passed down in mice DNA. The scientist filled a cage with acetaminophen—which smells of almonds—while administering electric shocks to mice. Soon the small creatures shook at the scent of acetaminophen. Their pups did the same even though they never suffered the shocks.

Did my grandmother's bloodlust get passed down to me?

"Yes," I say to her. "I am asking if you killed any of them."

"I never got the chance. But I wish I could have. I really do." Her coldness, the anger in her voice, stokes that fire inside of me.

"Thanks, Grandma."

"For what? Are you going to use this for some role?” Disdain drips off her words.

I meet my own gaze in the mirror—the unique violet color stunning—framed by my long, dark lashes. "Yes. For a very important role."

Troy Woodsand I move down the red carpet together, telling reporters about my role in his upcoming film. We smile, we laugh at each other's jokes, we answer questions about how excited we are to work together.Very.

Inside the event space, away from the cameras, the light is low. Buffet tables heaped with gourmet food line the walls. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, throwing purple light around the room, making all the meticulously displayed food look odd and unappetizing.

Waiters dressed in black move through the space with trays of drinks. Troy grabs two champagne glasses and hands me one.

"Grand isn't here yet," he says.

There is surveillance on every exit and entrance.

Troy is the lead, and I am but a weapon.The actress to his director.

But is that fair? That takes all the responsibility of this and lays it on his shoulders.I agreed to be the weapon…to the role.

I fiddle with the ring on my finger. It's very similar to the one I used on Vladimir, but the stone is ice blue. Temperance assured me that this time would be different.It is a delayed-reaction drug that will take days to go into effect—his death will look like a heart attack, unconnected to sharing a drink with you at a crowded event. Grand is overweight, older, and loves junk food. We’re really just helping nature along.

"I'm going to get a bite to eat," Troy says. My brows raise. The guy is so thin you'd think he didn't consume food at all, let alone in a high stress situation.

My stomach is bursting with thoughts and feelings; I couldn't add one morsel.

"Wait," I put my hand on his arm. "Don't leave me alone." The words spill out. I didn't even know I was going to say them. Didn't realize I needed him by my side in this crowd.