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But the words wrenched under his ribs.

They ascended the steps. Inside the lobby was a study in elegance. Marble underfoot, crystal light above, the weighted hush of old money. A man in an impeccable suit approached, tablet in hand.

“Good evening, sir, madam.”

“Ivchenko,” Leo handed over the engraved invitation. “Niko and Alisa Ivchenko.”

The man scanned the names, eyes flicking from screen to face. Leo held his gaze, neutral and bored, the practiced detachment of a man used to being obeyed.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Ivchenko—and your wife.” The host inclined his head. “Mrs. Ivchenko. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

He gestured toward the gilded double doors. “The private salon is just through there, to your left.”

Kat’s fingers slid into his without hesitation, the gold band warm from her skin.

Just another lie in the costume drawer. But the contact struck like a live wire—a hairline crack spidering through his control. The lie was starting to blur, and he wasn’t sure where it ended anymore.

He guided her into the salon, and the atmosphere shifted immediately.

Dark walnut framed the room and oil paintings gleaming under crystal chandeliers that spilled light across green baize tables. Diamonds caught fire as champagne flutes clinked. The air carried the unmistakable scent of wealth—old money and casual cruelty.

He scrutinized the room. Six security professionals. Two by the entrance, two at the service door, two mingling with guests. Hard eyes, rigid posture, weapons bulging beneath dinner jackets. Way beyond casino-grade. He catalogued exit routes—service door, main entrance, emergency stairs behind the bar.

Brock’s voice crackled in his ear, bone-dry. “Big grins, lovebirds. You’re on their highlight reel.”

Leo glanced up, noting the security cameras high on the wall, and then his gaze moved on.

Kat’s lips barely moved. “New hair, new dress. Let’s hope it’s enough.”

“Champagne, madam?” A server appeared with a tray.

Kat smiled, easy and disarming. “Thank you.”

Leo declined.

He led her toward a table with his back to the entrance, a position that let him use the gilded mirror opposite to monitor the room without turning.

Across the felt, four players sat behind neatly stacked chips.

A portly man with jeweled fingers, Middle Eastern, Leo guessed. Beside him, two men leaned close in conversation. One silver-haired, the other all sharp bones and angles. Old European money, probably. Effortless wealth. And the last, probably American, early thirties. He wore a hoodie under his tailored jacket and couldn’t stop tapping the edge of his cards. Tech money. Restless hands. Easy to provoke.

None of them looked at Leo twice.

All of them looked at Kat.

Parted lips. Straightened spines. The appreciative silence that always followed beauty into a room.

Leo’s jaw hardened as their gazes lingered on her and his hand drifted to the small of her back—a gesture too proprietary for an operative who knew better. The ring on her finger caught the light, glinting gold against her skin, and his pulse steadied. He found himself tracking the band’s small movements, taking irrational comfort in its presence.

She deserves more than borrowed gold and lies.

The thought ambushed him, slipping past his defenses before he could intercept it.

He exhaled as he pulled out her chair. Shoved the thought down.

Back where it belonged.

With the others. The ones that stayed buried—until they didn’t.