Brunch at the Dahlia was a quiet luxury.

  The kind of place where men closed deals over oysters, where the scent of fresh bread and citrus lingered in the air, where everything from the polished brass fixtures to the linen napkins whispered old money.

  Kairi crossed the tiled floor with unhurried grace, gliding past patrons who barely spared her a glance. She spotted him immediately.

  Audemars Lambert.

  Dressed in impeccable black, head to toe, his suit as sharp as the man himself. A gold compass hung from his lapel chain, catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. In his hands, a neatly folded newspaper, his fingers skimming over the pages as if the world within them was his to manipulate.

  Kairi approached, pulling out the chair across from him. "Reading anything interesting?"

  Lambert didn’t look up. Instead, he turned the page with slow precision. "Do you know the most honest section of a newspaper?"

  Kairi smirked. "Why don’t you enlighten me?"

  Lambert’s lips curled. "Football."

  She arched a brow. Not what she was expecting.

  "Football is the only sport that’s almost impossible to fix," Lambert continued. "And what’s reported is quite literally what happened. The same cannot be said for… well, anything else." His eyes flicked up, meeting hers for the first time. "Even the obituaries are a lie. Half the time, the people aren’t even dead."

  Kairi’s smirk didn’t waver. "I can’t say the same for Roland Thorne."

  Lambert grinned, setting the paper down at last. "No, I suppose you can’t." He steepled his fingers. "Tell me, Ms. Dauvret—how did it happen?"

  Kairi sighed, rolling her wrist in a loose, lazy gesture. "Messily."

  Then, with the same effortless poise she had told every version of this story before, she recounted it again. The Shadeborn. The carnage. The way Thorne screamed.

  Lambert listened, impassive. When she finished, he exhaled slowly, like a man considering a particularly well-cooked meal.

  "A convenient stroke of revenge," he mused. "Aren’t you lucky?"

  Kairi scoffed, reaching for the water glass before her. "I wouldn’t call it luck. I’ve been questioned twice since, templar included. Not exactly what I’d call fortunate."

  Lambert gave a slight nod. "Yes, well. The Church has a stake in Mr. Thorne’s passing."

  Kairi tilted her head. "How so?"

  Lambert leaned back, fingers tapping against the folded paper. "The Shadeborn Relocation Act. If Gallianese Parliament passes it, the rest of the realm may follow suit."

  Kairi paused.

  Lambert chuckled. "I can see the thought turning in your head, Ms. Dauvret. What do we care about the darkies?"

  His voice was light—teasing, almost.

  Then—his eyes sharpened.

  "Because they make our work infinitely easier."

  Kairi lifted her glass, watching him over the rim. "How so?"

  Lambert smiled like a man who knew something no one else did. "The number of Shadeborn-related criminal investigations that are dropped is… staggering. Because how do you identify them? No recorded features, no facial recognition. And when one of them commits a crime in our name?" He spread his hands. "Well, let’s just say, we always sleep soundly."

  Kairi felt something sour at the back of her throat.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Not that she cared about the Shadeborn. She didn’t.

  But there was something deeply ugly about how he said it.

  "Which brings us," Lambert said smoothly, "to the real reason you’re here."

  Kairi exhaled, already exhausted. "Of course it does."

  Lambert’s fingers drummed against the table. "Most politicians have a price. Minister Archibald Sloane does not. He is, by all accounts, a devout man. And devotion…" Lambert’s smile thinned. "Is a terrible thing for business."

  Kairi sighed. "So you can’t buy him, and you can’t drop him, because then he becomes a martyr."

  "Precisely." Lambert finally folded his hands, looking her over. "So instead, we will discredit him."

  Silence.

  Then, softly—"How devoted do you think a man like that is?" Lambert asked. "A husband to a wife. A father to a child. A man of faith." He tilted his head. "But could he resist one night in paradise?"

  Kairi went still.

  Her fingers curled slightly against the tablecloth.

  She already knew where this was going.

  "Get someone else," she muttered.

  Lambert’s brows lifted, mockingly. "Oh? Tired of playing the whore?"

  Kairi inhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tightening just slightly. "You don’t have to phrase it like that."

  Lambert’s smile was all teeth. "And yet, isn’t that what you are?"

  Kairi didn’t react.

  Not immediately.

  But the weight of it pressed against her ribs, coiled tight against her throat.

  Lambert exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "I could send someone else, of course." His voice was low, warm. "But this is a delicate matter. I’d rather leave it in the hands of someone who’s proven."

  Kairi swallowed.

  Lambert studied her, then tilted his head, considering. "Or…" he said lightly, "is it not the job that bothers you? Perhaps it’s the fact that for once, you aren’t the one pulling the strings?"

  That did it.

  Kairi let out a slow breath, forcing a smirk. "You really do think I’m a whore."

  Lambert smiled. "No." A beat. "I think you’re good at playing one."

  The words settled between them like a blade left on the table.

  Kairi’s jaw flexed.

  Lambert leaned back, pleased. "Get it done," he said simply. "And you’ll have a month off. You’ll be free to do what you want. To be who you want."

  He met her gaze. "But for this moment? You will be what the Court demands."

  Silence.

  A long, stretched moment.

  Then—Lambert’s hand hit the table.

  Hard. Sharp. The sound startled nearby patrons, forks pausing mid-air, glasses clinking in surprise.

  Kairi didn’t flinch.

  But she felt the weight of every eye on her.

  Lambert’s voice was velvet and iron. "Do you understand?"

  Kairi’s throat was dry. She hated herself for it.

  A pause.

  Then—quietly. "Yes, Auditor."

  Lambert’s expression smoothed. "Very good."

  He lifted the paper again, gaze already returning to more important things.

  "You’re dismissed."

  Kairi stood.

  And without another word, she left the brasserie.

  2:17 PM – The Gallian Parliament Building

  The air outside Parliament carried the scent of late autumn—crisp, laced with the faintest trace of rain. Kairi sat in a parked sedan across the street, watching.

  Minister Archibald Sloane exited the building, flanked by two aides.

  She had done her research. Fifty-four years old. Five terms in office. Former Navy officer. A man who believed in structure, order, and discipline.

  The kind of man who wouldn’t be swayed easily.

  Kairi exhaled slowly, violet eyes narrowing.

  His suit was well-pressed, but not designer. A politician’s suit—sharp, practical, respectable, but not indulgent. He shook hands with a colleague, laughing at something they said, then made his way to his car.

  A family man’s car. Not some lavish import. A simple, respectable sedan.

  Kairi frowned slightly. A man like that—so contained, so secure in his righteousness—would be difficult to move.

  She watched as he pulled away from Parliament.

  Then, she started the engine and followed.

  She tailed him for the rest of the afternoon.

  At 3:00 PM, he stopped at a florist. Picked up a bouquet—white lilies and blue hydrangeas.

  At 3:47 PM, he parked outside a private school. Waited by the gates.

  At 4:00 PM, the children flooded out. A boy, maybe nine or ten, spotted him and ran straight into his arms. Sloane laughed, ruffled the kid’s hair, said something that made him beam.

  Then, he drove home.

  Kairi watched from across the street, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel.

  This would not be a simple seduction.

  A man who openly betrayed his wife could be manipulated.

  A man who loved her—truly loved her—would have to be broken.

  She exhaled.

  A slow game, then.

  A game of doubt. Jealousy. Misdirection.

  A game where Sloane would never see her coming.

  10:30 AM

  The receptionist barely looked up as Kairi approached, flashing her credentials. Forged, but flawless.

  Her heels clicked against the polished floors. Each step deliberate.

  She knocked once, then pushed open the door.

  Sloane looked up from his desk, pen in hand. Mildly surprised, but polite.

  Kairi smiled, poised, professional.

  "Minister Sloane? My name is Geneviève Laurent."

  She extended a perfectly manicured hand.

  "I’m your new personal assistant."

  A pause.

  Then—he nodded.

  "I see. Well… welcome aboard, Miss Laurent."