Page 21

Black hair.

Still jarring—like wearing someone else’s face over her own. She’d dyed it hours earlier, the acrid bite of chemicals still burning her nostrils.

Kat pressed her lips together, studying the transformation. Enough to break the connection to the auburn-haired traitor splashed across every headline in London. At a glance, anyway.

Behind her, draped on the bed, was the midnight-blue gown Leo had purchased for her.

She’d protested when he’d insisted on Harrods, but he’d shut down her objections with a practicality she couldn’t argue against.

“You’re not bluffing billionaires in jeans and a sweater.”

She slipped the dress off its hanger, heavy silk sliding cool against her skin. It hugged her waist, then flared at her hips. Perfect.

She twisted, reaching for the zipper at the base of her spine. Tugged. The damn thing refused to budge.

Her shoulders sagged.

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.

“There’s one more piece of the disguise.” He moved toward her, one hand in his pant pocket.

Kat glanced down at herself, suddenly uncertain. “What did I forget?”

Two gold bands gleamed in his palm.

Wedding rings.

Of course.

Korolov knew her face, but married couples drew less scrutiny.

His fingers were warm as they took hers and slid the ring onto her finger.

Neither of them spoke.

He held her hand longer than necessary, thumb brushing her knuckles before letting go.

“We’re officially Niko and Alisa Ivchenko. Norwegian shipping dynasty. I’m the money, you’re the language. Your Russian is flawless?”

“Da,” she confirmed, grateful for the pivot. “Native level. One of my specialties.”

“Good.” He picked up his phone, glanced at the screen. “Car’s waiting downstairs. Black Bentley, driven by one of Brock’s associates. We’ll arrive at The Platinum Club at exactly nine, when the registration for the tournament begins.”

Kat nodded, mentally reviewing the plan. “Establish presence. I’ll engage Korolov while you plant the cloning device on his phone. Then we extract with his data, avoiding confrontation.”

“That’s the plan.” Leo’s bow tie remained undone, a small imperfection in his otherwise immaculate appearance.

“Your tie.” She stepped close, fingers finding the silk.

He didn’t move.

The tie fluttered between them, the back of her hand brushing his chest—warm through the crisp shirt. His throat worked a careful swallow and his breath stirred across her skin.

“There.” She retreated, skin tingling. “All done.” She reached for the evening wrap she’d also purchased that afternoon. “We should go.”

The elevator descended smoothly to the ground floor. They stood side by side, not speaking. Kat watched the floor numbers tick down, focusing on the task ahead rather than the man beside her.

The black Bentley waited at the curb, its engine running silently. The driver, a man with the build and alertness of ex-military, opened the rear door as they approached.

Leo’s palm settled at the small of her back as she slid into the leather interior. He followed, sitting close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. The car pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into London’s evening traffic.

“Nervous?”

Kat shook her head. “Focused.”

“Good.” His hand covered hers where it rested on the seat between them. “Stay that way.”

London blurred past in streaks of gold and shadow. In the window’s reflection, their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she forgot about Korolov, about Eldridge, about everything except the way he was looking at her.

Like she was worth protecting. Something worth losing everything for.

And for one reckless second, she believed the fiction. Not the mission, not the cover—but that the man beside her was truly hers.