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A sharp knock at the door. “Kat? Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just—” Her hands pressed against her hips. “The zipper’s stuck.”

A beat of silence. “Do you need help?”

She closed her eyes. Yes, she needed help. But asking was weakness—proof that she had limits.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Please.”

The door opened and Leo filled the frame, tuxedo sharp. His bow tie hung undone around his neck, a minor detail that somehow made him look even more devastating.

His eyes found hers in the mirror—held for a heartbeat—then dropped to the exposed line of her spine. “Hold still.”

She didn’t miss the slight catch in his voice, quickly masked with a throat clear.

His fingers found the zipper, knuckles grazing her spine as he drew it upward. “There.”

She held her breath until he stepped back.

“Thank you.” She turned to face him, smoothing the dress over her hips. The bodice fitted closely, the neckline modest but flattering. No room for visible weapons.

Leo’s gaze swept over her, reading her mind. “Thigh holster,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “Only option with that dress.”

He moved to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and removed a slim black thigh holster designed specifically for evening wear. He handed it to her without meeting her eyes, then retreated to the door.

“You keep formalwear holsters on standby?” she asked, taking it.

The corner of his mouth lifted—a dangerous half-smile. “Living room. Five minutes.”

She nodded, and he closed the door behind him. Quickly, she strapped the holster to her right thigh, high enough to be covered by the dress but accessible through the slit. The Glock’s weight against her leg was reassuring.

She stepped into blue satin heels to match—high enough to flatter, low enough to run—then studied her reflection one last time.

Kat Landon was gone.

The woman staring back looked like she made billionaires fold with a smile.

Sleek. Polished. Dangerous in silk instead of Kevlar.

She lifted her chin.

“You’re Kat Landon,” she whispered. “MI6. No one rewrites your story but you.”

She turned from the mirror before she could second-guess the imposter watching her.

Time to become her.

She took a controlled breath, then picked up the small clutch from the bed. It contained only the essentials. A lip gloss, a compact, her burner. No ID, nothing that could tie her to her real identity.

When she emerged, Leo stood silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He turned at the click of her heels, and something raw flickered across his features before his mask slid back into place.

Nothing about him looked soft. Especially not in that suit. His hair was slicked back, drawing the eye to his scar. It should’ve diminished him, but didn’t. It made him look more dangerous.

“You look...” He cleared his throat. “Ready.”

Ready.

The word landed like a tactical assessment. Her fingers tightened on her clutch as she held his gaze, ignoring the slight hollow that formed beneath her ribs. Professionalism. That’s what tonight required—not the flutter that had risen when he’d turned to see her.