Chaos erupts in the garden as the bodyguards surge forward all at once, surrounding Damien Fabre where he lies on the ground. One of them is already on the phone, calling the police. Another is holding Juliet off to the side, seemingly consoling her, but in reality making sure she doesn’t leave the scene. Most of the guests are talking excitedly or overcome with shock, and I can hear snippets of conversation all around me.
Is Damien dead?
What happened to him?
Do you think Adelaide did it?
I already know the answers to all their questions. Damien Fabre drank poisoned champagne, and he died the same way Zoe Evano did, and Adelaide didn’t do it. This is exactly what happened during the game of Sardines. Romeo is somewhere nearby in Paris, waiting for midnight, and it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to disguise himself as a server and hand a glass of poisoned champagne to Damien Fabre. Most of the guests would never take a second glance at a waiter, much less a first.
But Jamie is staring at Juliet, his blue eyes cold as ice. “Adelaide did it. She killed Damien.”
“No way,” I say. “She couldn’t have killed him in front of all these people—”
“Come on, Eliza,” he says impatiently. “I know she’s with the Executive. I thought I’d have more time to warn Damien about her, but apparently not.”
Before I can say anything else, I’m yanked out of my chair. A pair of French policemen in navy blue uniforms are peering closely at me, comparing my appearance to a photograph in their possession.
Jamie starts to his feet, reaching out to take my wrist. “Wait, she hasn’t done anything—”
One of the policemen shakes his head. “Pardon, monsieur. This is unrelated to the incident here. We received information that a wanted criminal was present at Damien Fabre’s wedding.”
As sirens begin to sound in the distance, the policemen handcuff my wrists in front of me. Something like panic is slowly starting to set in. Even before Damien’s death, the two of them must have been marching through the Hotel Cygne de Paris to arrest me. But I can’t miss the meeting with Romeo at midnight, and I definitely can’t lose the opportunity to visit Ophidian with Jamison Hart.
“I’ll come for you, all right?” Jamie says urgently. “I’ll sort it out with the embassy. Just sit tight...”
I lower my head, avoiding eye contact with any of the guests as the policemen escort me out of the garden. This is insanely bad. I can’t just sit back and wait for my target to save me. I have to extract myself from this situation as soon as possible, even it means jumping out of a moving police car.
But after a few minutes, I realize something doesn’t feel right. I’m not being taken to a police car or anything like that. Instead of leaving the hotel, the two policemen are guiding me into an elevator and pressing the button for the penthouse. The way they’re gripping my arms is entirely too firm, as if they’re hired assassins, and they haven’t bothered reading any of my rights to me at all.
I’m pretty sure these aren’t actually policemen.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, then repeat the question in French.
No answer from either one. I don’t know what’s waiting for me up in the penthouse, but it can’t be anything good. I have to at least try to escape before the elevator stops. Even though the subterfuge would have ended by now if the policemen were supposed to kill me, I have no guarantee that they won’t do it after we get there.
I take a deep breath and mentally count to three, then lunge to one side and spin around to face the policemen. Both men are completely surprised. They obviously didn’t expect me to try anything, at least not while handcuffed, which means whoever sent them to bring me up to the penthouse had no idea I was an Executive operative. It’s enough to give me an advantage. Hand-to-hand combat isn’t my strength, but I’ve trained for it time and time again.
Though, admittedly, never in handcuffs and heels.
I slam my elbow into the first policeman’s throat, crumpling his windpipe before either of them fully understands what’s happening. As he staggers away, choking for air, the second policeman tries to throw a punch at me. But I’m fighting for my life at this point, and I dodge his fist and brush my lips against his earlobe before tripping him to the floor. With a ruthless precision that I’m sure will haunt my nightmares for the next month or so, I stab my pointed heel into his thigh, trying not to wince as blood spurts out. I reach up to my head and yank out a silver hairpin, then whirl back around to the first policeman, intending to kiss him on the lips...
And I feel the barrel of a gun pressing against my forehead.
Shit.
“Restrain yourself,” says the first policeman hoarsely. “Or I will shoot.”
I hesitate, but the second policeman is already tying a handkerchief around his leg and climbing to his feet. At least neither seems to be retaliating, which means I’m being kept alive for now.
“Okay, okay,” I say, concealing the silver hairpin in the palm of my hand. “Sorry. Pardon.”
When the elevator doors open again, I’m dragged by the policemen into a dimly lit penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows are uncovered, revealing the twinkling lights of Paris outside. My heart sinks. We’re high up enough that Alpha’s vantage point for the wedding is useless, not to mention that it’s on the completely wrong side of the hotel. Most of the furniture has been covered with plastic and pushed against the walls, and a large tarp has been rolled out across the carpet. Whoever is occupying the penthouse is prepared for something messy, and for a moment I can’t understand why I’ve been brought here.
But then I see an older woman sitting in a lone armchair like royalty, her eyes regarding me coolly as I’m forced to stand on the tarp before her. She’s flanked by several additional policemen who all seem to be hired assassins in disguise. I can’t believe that she was able to occupy the penthouse of one of the most expensive hotels in Paris, that all these men working for her have exact replicas of French police uniforms, and that none of them seem to have any qualms against kidnapping me at all.
But the most unbelievable part is that the woman before me is Mellie Hart.
She’s barely recognizable as the previous target I met at the sailing race. The entire right half of her face has been badly burned, and there are visible scars running up and down her arms. Instead of a summer outfit, she’s wearing all black in a dramatic fashion, complete with a veiled hat and leather boots. How could I not have realized she was still alive? Her body, like Lawrence Fisher’s, was never found.
“Hello, Lily,” says Mellie, smiling at me. “How are you enjoying Damien Fabre’s wedding?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” I hear myself ask.
She shrugs, as if unconcerned about what happened at the sailing race. “I assumed Jamison would try to kill me after he poisoned Zoe. We both knew I’d go to the media about what Ophidian was doing after I divorced Gallagher. When he refused to board the Claire, it was the only thing that made sense. I dove into the water during the explosion, and poor Lawrence Fisher died instead.” She shakes her head. “What a waste of a specimen of a man.”
“Jamie didn’t poison Zoe.” My lips feel numb. “You’re lying.”
“I have no reason to lie to you,” she says. “I’m the only person in your life who’s telling you the truth. My stepson is a very convincing actor, Lily. He’s more dangerous than any of us, and he’s simply trying to use you to take over Ophidian.” She gestures at the burned side of her face. “This is what the future would have held for you. I’m doing you a favor by ending it before it even starts.”
A policeman steps forward and hands a revolver to her. I watch in disbelief as she limps to her feet and takes aim at my head. Despite the fact that she was once friendly, any trace of warmth has completely disappeared from her scarred face.
Mellie Hart is turning out to be an evil stepmother after all.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say desperately. “I know you’re not a killer.”
“Unfortunately, that’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes flash with determination. “I arranged to have the private jet explode, the same way Jamie blew up the Claire. I arranged to have Damien poisoned with cyanide, the same way Jamie killed my dear Zoe. I tried to leave the Hart family, and I lost everything because of it. Justice will more than make up for the scarring and pain that I’ve suffered.”
My fingers tremble as I make myself covertly fit the silver hairpin into my handcuffs. If this is true, if Mellie Hart really blew up Jamie’s plane and poisoned Juliet’s target, then she’s definitely about to execute me in the penthouse of the Hotel Cygne de Paris. There are eight armed policemen in here, in addition to Mellie herself, and I can’t take them all on my own. The one with the handkerchief around his leg will be violently sick in a few minutes, but he won’t die. Even if I manage to obtain a gun, I’ll be shot in the head before I can make it to the elevator. A bulletproof corset won’t help with that. The only way I can survive this is if Alpha snipes everyone in the penthouse, but he has to do it before Mellie Hart pulls the trigger.
I don’t know if he can get to a vantage point in time.
“We’re on the same side,” I say, trying to keep her talking for as long as possible. “I was going to leave Jamie anyway. He’s way too obsessed with me, and I’m sick of hearing about aberrants all the time. I don’t want to be anywhere near him or Ophidian—”
“I’m impressed by your acting,” says Mellie, not missing a beat. “I really am. But the thing is, Jamison seems to sincerely care for you. After you managed to survive the plane explosion, I had to see for myself whether the love between you was genuine. And because it is, I can say with absolute confidence that I will have the utmost pleasure in personally taking you away from him. His future will no longer hold you or his sick vision of an aberrant world.” She tenses her finger slightly, preparing to shoot me. “Any last words?”
I know what I want to say.
This is messed up.
I hope you get what you deserve.
Screw you.
But I have to get close to the ground if I want Alpha to have a clear shot at Mellie Hart. It’s insanely risky to bet everything I have, including my own life, on the belief that my partner has prioritized keeping me safe over everything else. We never actually touched base again after I reached Paris, and for all I know he hasn’t been covering me at all. Even if he was, he might still be on the wrong side of the hotel. I could easily be on my own right now.
But isn’t this how it always is? On any mission we go on, there’s always the possibility that my partner will be overtaken or distracted, that he won’t be around to protect me when I need it the most.
I have no choice other than to trust that August will be there for me, the same way he has always been, ever since we were children.
Moving as slowly as possible, I kneel down on the tarp and bow my head, as if preparing to beg for my life. Please, August, I think fervently, as if I can actually will him to be looking through the scope of his sniper rifle. If I know you as well as I do, I know you’re going to do it. I know you’re going to keep me safe.
But the very real possibility I don’t want to admit to myself is that I’ll be dead within the next minute. Alpha might not have found another vantage point, and he already failed to snipe the hired assassins in the elevator, which doesn’t exactly make me feel confident that he’s been watching over me with his X-ray vision. What if this is the same thing that happened after I made out with Reese? What if August decided he didn’t want to be my partner anymore after seeing me with Jamie on the patrol boat?
What if I misinterpreted the coded symbol he sent me?
I feel as if I’m about to puke. My pulse is racing in my veins, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out no matter what happens next. I force myself to twist the silver hairpin in the handcuffs, preparing to fight for my life anyway, but I’m so screwed. The most I can hope for is taking out maybe half the enemies in the penthouse before I’m killed. Is Alpha ready with his sniper rifle or is he not? Is he still my partner or is he not? I can’t decide. I don’t want to decide.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I say, but my voice is shaking and it’s not an act at all.
Sighing, Mellie cocks the revolver and says, “Yes, I do—”
The first bullet pierces her forehead before she even finishes the sentence.