Page 7 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

A pplause tapered into murmurs as the presidents and their wives wove through the crowd of diplomats, generals, and aristocrats.

Their movements were the choreographed elegance of seasoned statesmen, smiling and nodding, stopping to clasp hands or offer a few cordial words.

Their handlers lingered just behind, maintaining a buffer of space without making their presence too obvious.

I watched as they drew closer, noting the way Madame Auriol leaned in when she laughed, the subtle diplomacy of her touch on each extended hand.

Max Petitpierre was quieter, his smile more reserved, but his eyes missed nothing.

Even his wife, dressed like a portrait brought to life, moved with the easy style of someone used to being watched.

Around us, the clink of glass resumed as pre-dinner chatter filled the ornate salon once more.

Candles flickered in their crystal cages.

The soft rustle of silk and whispered French brushed against the gilded walls like background music.

Then, in a perfect unison born of lifetimes in the spotlight, the two couples reached the head table and sat.

On cue, the orchestra struck a lively overture composed by Bizet. Like a lazy cat stretching and yawning, the players’ music breathed warmth into the room, setting the mood for an evening of luxury, relaxation—and subtle games.

Servers in impeccable white jackets emerged in coordinated flow, bearing silver trays laden with bottles of Bordeaux and chilled champagne. I caught one eyeing our table, and within moments our glasses were refilled.

I glanced around, soaking it in: the grandeur, the masks of politeness, the subtle shuffles of power at play.

It was at once both beautiful and terrible.

It was a battlefield.

Seated to my left, the UK Ambassador’s wife, an elegant woman in a powder-blue gown that matched her icy gaze, leaned toward me with the kind of smile that warned of dangerous words to come.

“And how are you finding the evening, Mr. Wainright?” she asked.

There was no trace of suspicion in her voice, only the gracious curiosity of someone aware of every chess piece in play .

“It’s extraordinary,” I said, hoping my awe hadn’t bled too plainly through my grin. “I’m not sure I’ve blinked since we walked in.”

Her laugh was a soft, melodic thing that sparkled like her diamonds.

“The élysée has that effect. It is how the French awe their guests. On my first visit, I was so enamored I nearly walked straight into a bust of Napoleon. Had a guard not caught it, the priceless piece might be more shattered than the dead man’s army. My husband thought I’d been possessed.”

“That sounds mortifying.”

She waved a gloved hand. “Such is the life of a diplomat, always bumbling into things, forever attempting to stitch them back together.”

The lives of spies and diplomats aren’t so different after all , I thought.

I returned her smile without realizing how easy it was to like the woman. Her charm, her laughter, and the light in her eyes when she spoke were infectious. They were irresistible, as though a magnet with the pull of gravity had taken the seat beside me.

Thomas had been eavesdropping.

Before I could respond, he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table with a conspiratorial smile. “You should’ve seen him this afternoon trying to tie his bow tie. We were nearly late thanks to his meticulous mangling of French silk. ”

I nearly choked on my champagne.

Had Thomas just told the UK Ambassador’s wife that we were more than partners in the American diplomatic corps, as our covers stated? He never made such mistakes—and he never discussed our personal lives where anyone else might hear.

A ripple of nausea mixed with terror racked my stomach and clawed into my chest. It must’ve seeped into my eyes, because Mrs. Ambassador reached over and patted my forearm, her smile shifting from that of a diplomat to one of a confidante.

She whispered, “Breathe. We are not so backward as to worry over such things. Love him with all your heart. It warms mine to see you do so.”

For the second time that night, my mouth opened and refused to close.

Words failed me.

Grunts or groans or some other inappropriate sounds eked their way past my better judgement, but intelligible thoughts refused to give voice.

Thomas bristled.

Mrs. Ambassador’s smile widened, and her eyes sparkled.

“What were you saying about the necktie, dear?”

Thomas nudged my elbow.

I swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to mind. “Some of us like to look presentable. Others settle for roguish charm. ”

Mrs. Ambassador grinned at Thomas and raised her champagne flute. “Roguish charm always wins the day, dear.”

Thomas shot me a wink. “Told you.”

I laughed despite myself, feeling a new warmth settle in my chest. Whatever else the night held, that moment filled with glinting lights, soft music, and playful barbs from a warm and generous woman was something I would not soon forget.

Our banter paused as the steaming soup course arrived in elegant gold-rimmed bowls.

It was a velouté de champignons , a creamy mushroom soup perfected with white truffle oil and a whisper of brandy.

The scent alone was intoxicating, drawing delighted murmurs from around the table.

One of the actresses dabbed her lips with a linen napkin and declared it “heaven in a bowl.”

I was just lifting my spoon, ready to taste the decadence for myself, when the orchestra fell silent mid-phrase. A hush swept across the room like a curtain dropping, and conversations tapered into instinctive silence.

Silverware stilled.

Chairs barely creaked.

All eyes turned toward the head table.

French President Auriol had risen, his champagne flute held high, his face bright beneath the glint of chandelier light. Behind him, a golden drapery framed him like the centerpiece of a grand painting.

The moment hung in the air, fragile and ceremonial, as the room collectively awaited his words.