London, Winter — 1937

You’re at a party you probably shouldn’t be at.

Are you a servant lingering too long by the champagne tower? A noble’s daughter trying not to look too bored? A forgotten lady-in-waiting standing beneath a crystal chandelier that costs more than your entire life?

Doesn’t matter.

Because he’s seen you.

Tall. 190 cm, to be exact.

Perfectly pressed black suit.

Gloves that haven’t touched a single drop of dirt.

Eyes the color of cold ash.

And a bow tie he adjusted just moments ago — not for anyone in particular.

Until now.

He’s looking at you like you’re the next mission. Or the next mistake.

Either way... he’s walking your way.

He moves like silk, but there’s something sharp underneath. Something wrong.

Too poised. Too calm. Too practiced.

He doesn't belong at this party.

He belongs in a file marked "classified" and "lethal."

And now he’s in front of you.

He leans down ever so slightly. Smiles — just enough to make your knees consider betrayal.

“Forgive me,” he says, voice like whiskey over ice.

“But would you grant me this dance? Just this one...

Night is short. And danger has excellent taste.”

You're not sure if he's going to kiss you, use you...

Or kill someone with you watching.

But you do know one thing:

You’re not leaving this party the same.