Chapter 338
Chapter 331
Gemma’s POV
With a composure that feels almost unnerving, Mikhail gives me a look so subtle it barely qualifies as a flicker of his eyes.
My own gaze follows the trajectory, landing on a man seated diagonally across from us. He is in a cheap, ill–fitting plaid shirt, already on his third beer, laughing a little too loudly at a mediocre joke.
So this is the weak link… the traitor.
I give Mikhail’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll handle it,” I murmur, the promise quiet but firm.
As servers begin circulating with the first courses, I rise, lifting my glass of orange juice. The room’s chatter dips slightly. “Everyone,” I begin, forcing a warm, professional smile. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you. To a successful collaboration.” I drain the glass, the sweet juice a poor substitute for the solidarity of a real toast.
A red–faced man from Planning, emboldened by whiskey, leers at me. “Orange juice? That’s no way to make a toast! You need something stronger to show you mean it!”
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I keep the smile fixed in place. “I have an allergy. I’m afraid.
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You’ll have to excuse me.” The lie is effortless, a necessary
shield.
“An allergy?” he scoffs, not letting go. “All the more reason to build up a tolerance! A few shots will fix you right up.”
He’s the type who equates coercion with camaraderie. I ignore him, my focus locked on my real objective.
Mikhail’s voice, however, cuts through the noise like a shard of ice. “Perhaps you should concentrate on your own drink.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the threat is palpable. “I’ve ordered enough for the entire restaurant to ensure you’re satisfied.” The man instantly deflates, shrinking back into his seat.
Later, as the dinner reaches its peak, the air thick with laughter and clinking glasses, I catch Mikhail’s eye and slip away from my seat. I approach the plaid–shirted man, who is now staring dopily at his phone.
“Hi there,” I say, leaning in just enough to be conspiratorial. “You’re in the Planning Department, right? Mikhail mentioned I might be shadowing there soon. I was hoping you could give me a little preview?”
I bat my lashes slightly, playing the part of the admiring
novice.
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It’s depressingly easy. A little flattery from a woman he deems
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attractive, and he puffs up like a peacock, eager to impress. I steer the conversation to bland corporate topics, nodding as he holds forth.
All the while, on the other side of the table, Harold plays his part, keeping the man’s glass perpetually full.
The combination of ego and alcohol works quickly. Soon, his words are slurring, his movements unsteady.
Harold chooses his moment. “I’m heading to the men’s room,” he announces, feigning a slight urgency. “Care to join me?”
The man nods, a drunk, agreeable puppet. “Yeah, of course.”
That’s my cue. “I’ll come too!”
I say brightly. As I stand, my hand brushes the table, and his phone disappears into my pocket in one smooth, practiced motion. He’s too far gone to notice its absence and stumbles out after Harold.
In the sanctuary of a bathroom stall, I work quickly. My compact makeup bag yields a small, specialized toolkit.
I pry off the phone’s back panel. A direct software install is quicker but riskier; a physical bug, carefully affixed to the
interior casing, is far more discreet. My hands are steady, my05
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movements efficient.
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Within minutes, the device is secure and invisible. I reassemble the phone, wipe it clean, and pocket it again. Phase one, complete.
I slip back into the hallway, intent on a swift return. I’m calculating my next move when I walk straight into a solid, unmovable chest.
I look up, and my eyes meet Cassian’s midnight blue ones again.
A cold dread washes over me. Perfect. Just perfect! How do I keep running into him?
I immediately try to sidestep him, pretending he’s part of the wallpaper. But he’s already seen me. In two long strides, he blocks my path.
“Who are you here with?”
The question is laced with a possessiveness that makes my skin crawl.
“That’s really not your concern,” I retort, attempting to push past him.
He studies my face, his expression a familiar mix of irritation and frustration. The timing is a catastrophe.
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And then it gets worse. The plaid–shirted man emerges from the restroom with Harold, who spots Cassian and freezes, his eyes wide with alarm.
“Hey, buddy…!”
Harold says, grabbing the man’s arm in a panic, “I think I need to go again. Come on.”
The drunk man shakes him off irritably. “Go by yourself! I’m not your babysitter.” His bleary eyes land on me, and a sloppy grin spreads across his face. “Gemma! Waiting for me?”
Before I can react, he lumbers over and throws a heavy, familiar arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side in a gesture that is both crude and possessive.
I see the change in Cassian instantly. His controlled composure shatters. He doesn’t yell; he just jumps into action. His fist connects with the man’s face with a sickening, solid crack.
“Cassian, have you lost your mind?” I cry out, my meticulously laid plans crumbling before my eyes.
The man staggers back against the railing, clutching his now–bloody nose, howling in pain and shock.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Cassian snarls, advancing 5/8
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