The rain drummed steadily against the pavement, turning the parking lot outside the lounge into a glistening stretch of dark asphalt.
Heather Katherine Victoria Vallejo Van Amstel stepped out into the cool night air, her coat pulled tight around her shoulders as she made her way toward her SUV.
She'd said her goodbyes to Meadow and Lexy already—her cousins, her most trusted operatives—and was looking forward to nothing more than a quiet drive home.
She reached for the driver's side handle when the passenger door was suddenly wrenched open from the outside.
Her hand flew instantly to the holster beneath her jacket, fingers wrapping firm and ready around the grip of her gun.
Years of training took over in a heartbeat—assess the threat, calculate every possible angle, move before they do. But the woman who stumbled into the seat didn't look like an enemy. She looked like she could barely keep her head up.
"Drive," she slurred, collapsing back against the leather with a soft thud.
Heather froze, her weapon half-drawn as she studied the stranger. Wavy dark hair fell messily over her shoulders, fair skin flushed warm from too much alcohol, thin-rimmed glasses slipping down the slope of her nose.
She was undeniably striking—an elegant blend of soft, warm features and sharp, bright grace, like something painted rather than real.
But her movements were clumsy, her gaze glassy and unfocused. No assassin would ever make an entrance this careless.
"Excuse me?" Heather muttered, her voice tight with wariness.
The woman just groaned, tilting her head to the side. "Please... just drive."
Heather cast a quick glance around the dim lot, scanning for accomplices, for shadows that didn't belong, for any sign this was all a trap.
Nothing stirred.
The place was quiet, save for the rain tapping against the roof and the distant hum of traffic. She watched her for a long moment longer and realized there was no danger here—just someone who'd had far too much to drink, and clearly mistook her for someone else.
For a split second she thought about closing the door and leaving her be. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the quiet exhaustion written into every line of that lovely face, or the faint tremor in her hands that said this was about more than just a bad night out.
Maybe it was simply that Heather, for all her cold calculation, still carried a stubborn sense of responsibility—even toward strangers who barged uninvited into her car.
She sighed, holstering her weapon once more. "Fine. But if you make a mess in here, you're paying for every bit of the cleaning."
She slid behind the wheel, pulled out of the lot and merged onto the road. Beside her, the woman slumped further, her breathing slowing into something steady and soft.
Every few minutes Heather glanced over, her gaze lingering longer than she'd have liked. There was an air of quiet refinement about her—expensive taste in clothes, a poise that never fully slipped even when intoxicated. She wasn't just anyone; Heather could tell that much.
Ten minutes down the road, the woman shifted, her hand reaching out to curl loosely around Heather's arm. Heather tensed, but the touch was soft, almost desperate.
"You're... really pretty," she mumbled, words thick and slow. "Like... impossibly pretty."
Before Heather could even think of a reply, she leaned forward, her lips brushing clumsily against her jaw. It was quick, fleeting—nothing more than intoxication and loneliness guiding her.
