31. Sophie
Sophie
Istand in front of the mirror and do what I’ve done before every seduction assignment since I was twenty-three years old.
I take myself apart and put someone else together.
The process is systematic and as mechanical as field-stripping a weapon.
Foundation first—even-toned, poreless, fifteen minutes for skin that looks effortless.
Then the eyes—dark shadow blended into the crease, liner drawn in a thin, precise wing, lashes darkened and separated until my eyes look wider, deeper, eyes that make men lean in.
Lips last. A deep, dark red that makes a man’s gaze drop from your eyes to your mouth without him realizing he’s done it.
My hair is down. Loose waves that fall past my shoulders, soft and touchable. Hair that’s designed to make a man think he’s seeing the real you.
Except he’s not. None of them ever are.
The dress is black. Simple, fitted, a neckline that shows collarbones and the hollow of my throat without revealing more, the hem just above the knee.
Long sleeves that cover everything that needs covering—the mark on my forearm where the intruder’s knife caught me and the map of violence that lives beneath my skin. The back is high, like it always is.
I step back and look at the woman in the mirror. She doesn’t look like Sophie Dysart. She doesn’t look like Sophie Aveline either. She looks like a weapon shaped like a dinner date.
I glance at my phone to check the time and slip it into a small clutch along with a lipstick, a credit card, and a ceramic blade the length of my index finger.
Some habits die hard.
I walk off the property along the service path—the one that curves behind the residential wing and far enough from the building that no one will see me getting into a car that isn’t a cab.
Max is already there.
His Range Rover is parked beneath the trees, engine off, headlights dark.
He’s leaning against the passenger side with his arms crossed, white shirt, no tie, his dark hair falling in that slightly wavy way it always does, like he spent an hour on it, though I’m starting to suspect that’s just how it grows.
His eyes meet mine the moment I round the corner, as if he sensed me coming. His arms unfold and his hands drop to his sides.
I walk toward him through the dusk, and I can feel his gaze on me like something physical—on my hair, on my legs, on the dress that moves against my thighs with every step. The distance between us closes and he slides his hands into his pockets.
I stop in front of him. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, and my stomach instantly tightens.
“Hi,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean it to.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is rough. His green eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, and his jaw tightens like he’s physically holding words back.
He wants to say something. I can see it forming behind his eyes, but I don’t know what it is.
A comment about the dress, maybe. Or the lipstick.
Or maybe he’s just worried—I’m walking into a dinner with a man who could potentially be dangerous, and the last time I was alone with someone at Synthera, I got a knife wound for it.
He’s being protective of an employee. That must be what this is.
It’s the only thing it can be.
The drive to the restaurant is quiet, almost too quiet.
The car is soft leather and dark and intimate.
I can hear every breath, every rustle of fabric.
His hand is on the gear shift, inches from my knee.
I can see the tendons in his forearm, the way his fingers wrap around the leather, and I’m certain he can hear my heart beating because I can feel it in my throat.
He’s right there. Close enough to touch if I moved my hand two inches to the left.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and reach for my phone.
“Here’s the plan. I’ll try to make sure he drinks and steer the conversation toward personal territory as soon as I can. If he’s hiding something, the alcohol should help him loosen up.”
Max’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “And if he touches you?”
“Then I handle it,” I say. “Like I always do.”
He doesn’t respond to that so I continue.
“I’ll monitor his device usage. If he checks his phone or sends a message during dinner, I’ll note the timing and the body language around it. Declan’s team can cross-reference any outgoing communications against the encrypted channel.”
His eyes stay on the road.
We drive in silence for a while. The city slides past outside the windows—traffic lights, storefronts, the amber glow of streetlamps casting moving stripes across the interior of the car.
I try my hardest not to look at him but I can’t help watching the light play across his profile—the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the dark hair that’s almost black in this light.
He is so fucking good-looking.
No wonder the press can’t leave them alone. Three unmated alphas who look like that were never going to have private lives.
And he’s so unreadable. Even now, with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
Whether he’s mentally drafting tomorrow’s board agenda or bracing himself for the hours he’ll spend parked outside a restaurant waiting for me, or thinking about nothing at all.
His face gives me nothing, and I want to crack it open, and that want is dangerous.
I look away and grip my clutch and don’t say another word for the rest of the drive.
Max parks half a block from the restaurant, tucked beneath a row of trees where the streetlight doesn’t reach. Through the windshield, I can see Il Vecchio’s warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk, golden light that makes everything look like a painting. A couple walks out arm in arm, laughing.
I reach for the door handle.
“Sophie.” His voice stops me before I can open it. “Be careful.”
I glance back at him. His green eyes are dark in the low light, and for one second he looks like a man watching someone walk into a burning building.
“Always am, Max.”
I get out and walk toward the restaurant without looking back.
But I can feel him watching me, and my skin prickles with it—a heat that has nothing to do with the evening air and everything to do with the man sitting in the car behind me—and it stays with me all the way to the restaurant door.
I spot Victor immediately.
He’s at a corner table, facing the room, a glass of red wine already in front of him. He stands when he sees me, too quickly, the eagerness just a bit too obvious, and his smile spreads across his face like he’d practiced it in the mirror on the way over.
“Sophie! You look incredible.” His eyes travel down my dress in a sweep that takes a full second longer than it should. “That dress is really something.”
“Thank you, Victor,” I say, tilting my head and giving him an admiring smile. “You look pretty good yourself. I almost didn’t recognize you out of the uniform.”
He doesn’t. His suit is fine but there’s something about him that reminds me of a snake in a good shirt. Too smooth, too polished, and everything just looks a bit too perfect.
He pulls my chair out—a gesture that would be charming if it weren’t accompanied by his hand lingering on the back of it for a moment too long, his fingers almost brushing my arm as I lower myself into the seat.
“I took the liberty of ordering a bottle,” he says, already pouring me a glass of the red. “I hope you don’t mind. I have a thing about wine—I like to choose it myself.”
“Of course not, Victor,” I say, widening my eyes just enough. “I know nothing about wine, so I’m glad one of us does.” I touch the stem of the glass and smile up at him through my lashes. “What else do you have good taste in?”
He practically glows. I sip my wine and let my eyes wander the room while he talks.
The restaurant is nice and all, but I know there are at least a dozen Italian places that would’ve been closer, nicer ones too, but Victor chose this one. I wonder why.
His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, types something quick with one thumb, then places it face down on the table beside his wine glass.
“So, Sophie,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Tell me about yourself. How does a woman like you end up as an executive assistant?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like being close to the action. And the Cavill pack is...” I let the pause do the work. “Impressive.”
“Impressive.” He repeats the word with a slight smirk. “That’s one way to put it. Those guys are intense. Max especially.” He takes a sip of wine. “Must be hard, working that closely with three unmated alphas.”
“It has its moments,” I say, and let him read whatever he wants into that.
He does. His smile widens.
The waiter arrives and Victor orders for both of us without looking at the menu—steak for him, salmon for me, as if he’s already decided what kind of woman I am and what kind of woman eats what. I smile and thank him, even if I really want to stab him.
“I’ve been at Synthera for almost ten years now,” he says, settling back in his chair. “Started in corporate security, worked my way up. It’s a good company. Good benefits.” He swirls his wine. “The pay could be better, but what can you do.”
“Ten years is a long time,” I say. “You must really like it there.”
“I like the stability. And the access.” He catches himself. “To the facilities, I mean. The gym, the campus. It’s a nice setup.”
His phone buzzes again. He flips it over, reads the screen, types a quick reply, and puts it face down.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Just a friend.”
Nobody apologizes for texts from a friend with that much guilt on their face.
Then I see it.
His ring finger on his left hand. There’s a very faint tan line—barely visible in the restaurant’s low light, but it’s there. The ghost of a band that was worn for years and removed recently enough that the skin hasn’t evened out.
I look at the phone, face down on the table. At the restaurant, forty minutes from Synthera.