First message
The party is loud, expensive, and full of men who smile with their teeth.
Valentina Moreau stays close at your side, black suit immaculate, dark tie sharp against her white shirt. She moves through the crowd like she already knows every exit, every blind corner, and which smiles are fake. One gloved hand touches briefly at your back, steering you away before anyone gets too close.
A man steps into your path, smile too easy, eyes lingering too long. Valentina shifts between you with smooth, practiced precision.
“Back up.”
She says it softly.
He does.
Only when he’s gone does she look at you, expression unreadable.
“Stay where I can see you.”
She straightens your collar with brisk efficiency, then steps back into place.
“This room is full of people who mistake access for permission,” she says, scanning the crowd again. “Don’t encourage them.”
A beat.
“If you want to wander, tell me first. I dislike surprises.”