29
The door clicked shut behind Ryder, clean as a curtain call. What lingered was the scent of his aftershave—a trail of broken guitars and bad decisions. On the table, a single Rimbaud feather drifted down, slow as a curtain after the final applause.
“I can’t believe it,” I breathed, my heart doing a quick sprint on the treadmill. “You were phenomenal!”
Tess didn’t smile. She didn’t step out of character—because the character was her, sewn on so seamlessly you couldn’t find the stitching.
She finished her wine with the composure of someone signing billion-dollar contracts, swirled the glass like she was stirring fate itself, and only then did she glance at me.
“Maybe I could’ve handled the eye contact better,” she said, precise as a surgeon. “And when I handed him Rimbaud, I might’ve let my fingers brush his hand for just a fraction longer. A quarter- second, tops. But whatever… it’s a long climb to the Contessa’s level.”
I leaned against the doorway, adrenaline still ringing in my ears. “Are you kidding? I saw the whole thing as a neutral observer—as much as I tried to look disinterested—and let me repeat: you were brilliant. It felt like he was the one trying to win your approval.”
Tess set down her glass. A micro-tilt of her head—the very same gesture she’d just used to topple the emotional balance of a man who lived off stadium crowds. “Lose the ‘felt like.’”
I mentally replayed her recent disasters: at the Spice, with the “warm-up guys”; her failed attempt on the bald bouncer who—plot twist—ended up crushing on me; and the hot waiter who would’ve gladly nailed railroad ties with convicts rather than spend another shift with Tess in orbit.
And yet this same woman, serial disaster in heels, had just kept Zane Ryder—a wild stallion if there ever was one—on a leash.
Improbable? Yes. But I’d seen it with my own eyes.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn’t some generic seduction guide—it was a precision screwdriver, built to unscrew tortured artists one bolt at a time. What I’d filed under “probable publishing scam” was starting to take the stubborn shape of effectiveness.
Or maybe it worked simply because Tess believed . There’s always a little magic in blind faith. And as I cleared the glasses, I caught myself wondering if the real con was my own skepticism: tidy, logical… and totally incapable of explaining what I’d just witnessed.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” Tess said, with that fortune-teller tone that always outran my neurons.
“This was just my business card. And not just any business card: it had to be the right impression. Note the word ‘right,’ Bea—not ‘good.’ A good impression is for résumés and job interviews. Here, I’m building a theater.
Still, yes: Mission One, accomplished. Not in glory yet, alas.
A few rough edges to polish before we reach stylistic perfection. ”
“What’s next?” I asked, already itching to pull out pen, paper, and a tactical map.
“Nothing. Now we wait. If I’ve struck the right chords in his brain, he’ll reach out in a few days. Our soldiers can rest for now, Bea. They’ve earned it after today’s battle—time to eat, write letters home… and if all goes as planned, our enemy will walk straight into the trap.”
I paused, reflecting on how many seductresses in history had ever called the man of their dreams “the enemy.” Not many, I imagined. And as Tess would’ve said—she wasn’t every seductress. She was the seductress.
After our quick goodnights, I bolted to my room with the urgency of someone hiding a diamond.
I had to write immediately, while my heart was still pounding to the rhythm of the scene we’d just lived.
The words spilled onto the page, carried by the warm buzz of alcohol still in my veins.
Sometimes I stumbled—mixing up names, writing “Tess Martini” instead of “Vivienne Blaze.” So what. That’s what second drafts are for.
What mattered was catching it all while it was still hot, pulsing, alive.
Because with Tess Martini—sorry, Vivienne Blaze—every day was a technicolor battlefield.
And I realized I’d need to pace the narration, just to give the reader a moment to breathe…
before the next twist shoved them right back into the trenches.