Vincent expected a performance of serenity at dinner. Nyx would give him a performance of shattered nerves barely held together – a performance so convincing it might buy time, deflect suspicion, and explain any minor inconsistencies in Penelope's behavior. The genuine terror was still there, a wellspring to draw from. I just needed to… channel it. Direct it.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that wasn't entirely faked, I deliberately mussed my hair further. I pinched my cheeks to bring back a hint of color, but not enough to banish the pallor entirely. I practiced a look in the mirror – wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, a faint tremor in the hands. Not the defiance of Nyx, but the raw, broken vulnerability of Penelope after seeing the monster unveiled. Yes.
But beneath the performance, Nyx worked furiously. Dead Drop Beta. The garden bench near the old oak tree? Too exposed after the stone drop. The loose floorboard in the disused linen closet on the third floor of the East Wing? Mrs lamy had mentioned it was being renovated… potentially accessible. Risky, but possible. I needed a marker. Something small, disposable, that wouldn't be missed.
My eyes landed on the delicate mother-of-pearl button from the cuff of one of the provided silk blouses. I'd noticed it was loose this morning. Perfect. I carefully pried it off. A tiny, white disc of nacre. Innocuous.
The plan formed, cold and precise beneath the layer of manufactured panic:
1. Survive Dinner: Deliver the performance of a lifetime – shattered, barely functional Penelope. Use genuine trauma as cover.
2. Signal Falcon: During the pre-dinner "freshening up" excuse, slip away. Reach the linen closet. Place the button beneath the loose floorboard (if accessible). Signal received. Extraction protocol Echo on standby.
3. Assess Vincent: Watch him like a hawk during dinner. Does his scrutiny feel like ownership… or suspicion? Does he probe? Test?
4. Regroup: After dinner, access my real tools. The ancient laptop hidden in the vanity stool. See if Cavalier's compromise yielded any actionable intel before he was burned. Plan the next move towards Shadow snake.
A knock sounded at the suite door. Sharp. Authoritative. Not Mrs. Lamy. My blood ran cold.
"Penelope." Vincent's voice, cold and flat, penetrated the wood. "Dinner."
So soon? He was testing me. Already.
I took one last look in the mirror. The terrified bride stared back. Nyx took a deep breath, buried herself deep, and let Penelope's raw, palpable fear rise to the surface. My hands visibly shook as I smoothed the cashmere sweater. I opened the door.
Vincent stood there, immaculate in another dark suit, no trace of the afternoon's violence visible. But his eyes… his obsidian eyes scanned my face, my posture, my trembling hands with unnerving intensity. He saw the pallor, the widened eyes, the barely contained tremor. He saw the performance he had demanded – the shattered wife.
A flicker of something – satisfaction? Contempt? – passed through his gaze. "You look… unsettled," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection.
I met his gaze, letting the genuine horror I felt at his proximity, at the memory of the paperweight, shine through my eyes. My voice, when it came, was a thin, strained whisper. "It's… been a difficult day."
He held my gaze for a beat longer, his own inscrutable. Then, he offered his arm. Not a gesture of affection, but a command. A leash.
"Indeed," he murmured. "Shall we?"
I placed my trembling hand on his arm. The contact sent a jolt of revulsion through me. The diamond ring glittered coldly. As we walked towards the dining room, the terrified wife clung to the Don's arm, her performance flawless. But deep inside, Nyx was already mapping the route to the linen closet, counting the steps, calculating the risk, and bracing for a dinner that was no longer just a performance, but the opening gambit in a deadly game of survival where my true identity was the most dangerous secret of all. The gilded cage was now a battlefield, and Agent Nyx was officially in the crosshairs.