The chandeliers dripped with guilt and gold.
Everything about the ballroom screamed excess - a carefully crafted illusion meant to disguise the war breathing just outside its walls.
The Republic of Rica hosted the gala under the guise of peace.
But peace was a performance. And tonight, the actors were dressed in silk and suspicion.
Mia Veyra arrived late.
Not because she lacked punctuality - but because timing was everything. You enter too early, you're overlooked. Too late, and they assume you're weak. But walk in just as the champagne is settling in their veins? They remember you.
And Mia Veyra was always remembered.
She wore red - not the soft red of flattery, but the kind of red that made married men swallow twice. Her gown clung in all the right places and moved like it had a secret. She didn't need a slit up her thigh to catch attention. The way she carried silence was far more dangerous.
She was Lina Loas' so-called "cultural envoy."
But cultural envoys didn't have files locked behind three layers of encryption.
Across the room, Colonel Lucas Drax caught her eye.
Or perhaps, she allowed him to.
He stood like he belonged to the earth - spine straight, jaw locked, medals glinting under the crystal lights. His face had seen war, but it was his stillness that gave him away.
He wasn't mingling. He was watching.
And now, he was watching her.
She sipped from her glass - a slow, deliberate taste of something she didn't need.
A corner of her mouth curled.
He moved toward her.
Not too fast.
Not like a man chasing.
But like a man who didn't need to.
"Rica's wine has improved," she said, before he could speak.
Her voice was low, honey laced with smoke.
"Still leaves an aftertaste," he replied.
Their eyes met - not clashing, but circling. Measuring.
"You don't look like a cultural attaché," he said, blunt but careful.
"And you don't look like someone who trusts easily."
"I don't."
"And yet... you're here."
"And yet, so are you."
She stepped closer - close enough that the scent of her reached him. Something foreign, soft, and designed to unsettle.
Lucas didn't move.
But something behind his eyes shifted.
Mia tilted her head, her lips parted just slightly - not in invitation, but in curiosity. Like she already knew what he'd do next.
"You're not from around here," he said.
She smiled. "Neither are you."
Silence stretched. People milled around them, laughing, toasting, breathing politics. But between them, the air was heavier. Tighter.
He nodded toward the dance floor.
"Do you?"
"I don't usually."
"Then tonight's unusual."
She didn't take his hand.
She turned, walked forward, expecting him to follow.
And he did.