Chapter 13 Mia
MIA
I think the dress might be a mistake.
I stand in front of the hotel mirror in nothing but my knickers, holding the red silk up to my body and wondering what the hell I was thinking when I bought it.
The neckline plunges lower than I remember, the back is practically nonexistent, and the fabric is the type to cling to every curve like it’s been painted on.
It’s the kind of dress that demands attention—the opposite of everything a spy should want.
“You’re breathing weird,” Bayo says in my ear. “What’s happening?”
“I’m having a crisis.”
“About?”
“This bloody dress.” I turn sideways, examining my reflection. “I think it might be too much. Yes. It’s too much.”
“Describe it to me.”
“Red. Silk. Shows off my tits. Barely any back. Definitely can’t wear my knickers or a bra with it.” I pause. “I look like I’m trying to seduce someone.”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
The past few days have been a blur of intel and confusion.
The data from the Queens facility sits heavy in my mind.
The subject logs with failure rates that make my stomach turn, phrases like neural degradation and consciousness fragmentation that sound less like genetic enhancement and more like something out of a horror film.
And Kapoor. Access revoked. Kapoor Incident.
See restricted file. He found something. Something worth killing for.
Then, there’s the Paragon competition. Last week, I stood in that crowd and watched Vanguard push himself past his limits, watched him win by three bloody seconds against that black-armored machine. I practically melted at the genuine smile he flashed me when he landed.
Then, I was at Vanguard’s penthouse, and he made me grilled cheese and I called him Nate and he didn’t tell me not to. Maybe because he was busy, literally about to jump off his balcony, but still.
The way I can’t stop thinking about him, even when I should be thinking about the mission, is getting a bit worrisome.
“Put the dress on, Mia,” Bayo says gently. “You bought that dress for a reason. You’ve got a job to do.”
I nod, step into the silk, and pull it up over my hips, sliding my arms through the thin straps. The fabric is cool against my skin, whispering over my body as I adjust the neckline, pull out my knickers from underneath so they don’t leave lines, and smooth the skirt.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger, all curves and exposed skin, the red silk catching the light like liquid fire.
My collarbones look sharp, my neck impossibly long, my earrings sparkling.
The dress leaves my back bare from shoulders to the base of my spine, a sweep of golden skin that feels almost obscene.
I look dangerous. I look like a woman who wants to be noticed.
I want Vanguard to do the noticing.
I sit at the vanity and start on my hair, twisting it up into an elegant knot that takes way too much time and way too many bobby pins.
A few tendrils escape to frame my face, softening the severity.
Then, makeup—subtle except for my lips, which I paint the same red as the dress.
Not like I’m going to be kissing anyone.
“Kat’s already in position,” Bayo tells me from my earrings. “Remember, she’s Elena Varga, freelance photographer, credentials courtesy of yours truly. She’s got comms too—separate channel, but I’m monitoring both. She’ll be able to hear you, but once you mute me, you mute her.”
“Good.” I stand, smoothing my hands over my hips one last time. The silk ripples under my palms, cool and slippery. “Any updates on the Prometheus data?”
“Still decrypting the restricted files, but what we’ve got so far…” He pauses. “It’s ugly, Mia. Whatever they’re doing, it’s not just enhancement anymore. And there’s a reference to something called Phase Five—dated 2038. Same year Vanguard went public.”
“Keep digging,” I say. “I’ll see what I can find tonight.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I cross the room to check it, my heels sinking into the plush carpet with each step.
Vanguard’s texted me. Downstairs. Take your time.
Despite everything—the mission, the intel, the growing certainty that my feelings for Vanguard are borderline inappropriate—I can’t help but smile. Can’t help that my stomach flutters like a net full of butterflies.
“Vanguard’s here,” I tell Bayo. “Going dark on receive.”
“Copy that. We’ll be listening. And Mia?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. There will be a lot of monsters at this event. They often wear the most expensive suits.”
“Got it.” I twist my left earring to the right. From now on, he can hear me, but I can’t hear him—not until I find somewhere private enough and far enough from Vanguard’s ears to risk opening the channel again.
I grab my clutch, check my reflection one last time, and head for the elevator.
The Meridian is waiting at the curb when I step outside, sleek and impossible, hovering three feet above the pavement in a feat of gravity manipulation.
The night air is crisp against my bare shoulders, raising goosebumps along my arms, and I’m suddenly very aware of how much skin I’m showing.
The doorman stares as I walk past. A woman on the sidewalk actually stops mid-stride to gawk.
I have to fake my confidence, but it seems to be working.
Danny, Vanguard’s handler, stands beside the car in a chauffeur’s uniform, and his eyebrows shoot up when he sees me.
“Holy shit,” he says.
“That a good shit or that a bad shit?”
“That’s a holy shit.” He opens the rear door with a flourish and gives me a wicked grin. “Boss is gonna lose his mind.”
I hope so.
I duck into the back seat, careful not to snag the silk, and there he is.
The boss.
Vanguard.
I slide in next to him, his wide, imposing frame taking up most of the spacious car, and suddenly, it’s like all the air has been knocked from my lungs, like he’s too close, and it’s all closing in on me.
Doesn’t help that he looks sexy as sin.
The tuxedo fits like it’s been sewn directly onto his body—black fabric straining across those ridiculous shoulders, the white shirt crisp against his throat, a black bow tie that somehow makes him look both elegant and dangerous.
His dark hair is swept back from his face, his beard trimmed close, and when his eyes land on me, they go wide for just a moment before darkening into something that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“Is that a compliment or a prayer?”
“Both,” he says, his voice thickening. His gaze travels down my body slowly, deliberately, lingering on the neckline in a way that makes my nipples tighten beneath the silk.
I watch him swallow, watch his jaw clench, watch the way his hands flex against his thighs like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
“I thought you were a journalist, but it turns out, you’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? ”
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
The words come out sharp—and too close to the truth—but he just laughs, low and rough, as Danny climbs into the driver’s seat and lifts us smoothly into the sky.
The sensation is still strange—that moment of weightlessness, the city dropping away beneath us like a dream.
I grip the edge of the leather seat as Manhattan sprawls out below.
The Empire State Building slides past on our right, close enough that I can see tourists on the observation deck, pointing at us.
“I could’ve flown you myself,” Vanguard says. “Would’ve been faster.”
“And ruined my hair? No thank you.”
“Your hair looks…” He trails off, his eyes catching on my exposed neck, the hollow of my throat. I watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips. “Yeah. Let’s not ruin it.”
The car hums around us, a cocoon of leather and quiet luxury. The seats are warm beneath my thighs, heated to ward off the autumn chill. Through the tinted windows, the city lights paint shifting patterns across Vanguard’s face—gold, then blue, then red.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, though it doesn’t do much to break up the tension, at least not on my end.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
About the data Bayo’s decrypting. About Kapoor’s restricted file. About whether you know what your creators are really doing, or if you’re just another victim of whatever nightmare they’re running.
I’m thinking about how badly I want to touch you and how badly I want to be touched.
“About how I’m going to explain to my editor why I’m attending a presidential fundraiser as your date instead of covering it objectively.”
He gives me a stiff smile. “Tell them it’s method journalism. Deep cover. Really getting into the story.”
“Is that what this is?”
“I don’t know what this is.” His voice is quieter now, stripped of the flirtation. He leans in slightly, his gaze intense, pinning me in place until I feel like I can’t breathe. “Do you?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything we aren’t saying. I look at him—this man who makes me feel things I’ve spent fifteen years learning to suppress—and feel my carefully constructed walls tremble.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t.”
Something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe, or recognition. As if he’s just as lost as I am, just as terrified of whatever is building between us.
Because something is building between us, isn’t it?
Or is it just in my head?
God, please let it be in my head. It would be so much easier that way.
As if he hears my thoughts, he reaches over and takes my hand.
The contact sends electricity sparking up my arm—his palm warm and rough against mine, his fingers threading through my own with a gentleness that seems impossible for someone so powerful.
He doesn’t say anything. He just holds my hand in the dark while the city twinkles and Danny pilots us toward whatever the evening brings.
This isn’t good, Mia, I tell myself. Let go of his hand. He shouldn’t be holding your hand for a whole bunch of reasons, and none of them are good.