Chapter Text
The venue is crowded and stifling and Angela’s emerald green dress clings to her skin uncomfortably. She’s tired, but her time undercover is meant to come to an end soon. She just has a little more to do. She has to power through this gala.
It’s pretentious, she thinks. Her eyes flit across the crowd of prim and proper men and women, all done up in expensive suits and dresses that probably cost more than her paychecks. Maybe she’s biased, but she finds it hard to believe that any of them care about the charity they are raising money for beyond how it will pad their reputations.
Then, someone catches her eye. It isn’t the arms dealer she is here to meet, but she thinks the man in the navy blue suit with his piercing blue eyes might be just as dangerous. The way he looks at her, with a flicker of recognition where there should be none, scares her. She’s playing a part, but he seems to see right through it, right through her.
The feelings stirring in her chest are too intense for a first glance and she tears her eyes away from his, getting back to work. She doesn’t register the change, but her hands have stopped pulling at her dress and she breathes easier, the room no longer feeling as suffocating.
She slips through the crowd, champagne glass balanced delicately between fingers. The weight of her concealed weapon presses against her hip, a quiet reminder of why she’s really here. Her target is across from the room, surrounded by security, but Angela's eyes keep drifting back towards the man in the navy suit.
He’s watching her. Not in a subtle, casual way. His gaze lingers too long, too sharp. A lawyer’s gaze - dissecting, calculating. Her pulse stutters when he starts towards her, cutting a path through the clusters of socialites and politicians.
He stops in front of her, his eyes flicking down to her glass. “Not drinking?”
She raises an eyebrow. “On the job.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Professional.”
“I try.”
He tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes are too direct, too perceptive. There's a quality about them that just has her wanting to fall straight in, like the cool ocean on a hot summer's day, drawing her in closer, a trap she aims to resist. “Have we met before?”
Her grip tightens around the cold stem of the champagne flute. “I dont think so.”
He watches her carefully, not the way men usually do, eyes lingering on the curve of her waist or the dip of her dress - but with a quiet intensity, like he’s trying to piece her apart, layer by layer. His gaze feels surgical, too sharp. Too inquiring.
Angela shifts, setting the champagne glass down on the tray of a passing server with a soft clink. Her eyes flick towards her target - still talking, still laughing, still completely unaware. An invisible weight presses down on her chest, the weight of blue eyes and quiet inquisitive questions.
“I’m sure I’d remember,” Wesley says, voice low, almost conversational, “if we had met before.”
Angela’s smile is thin. “You must meet a lot of people, Mr. Evers.”
The faint lift of his brow tells her she’s made a mistake.
“You know my name.”
Damn it.
Her expression doesn’t falter. Years of training make sure of that. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“That’s dangerous,” Wesley murmurs, his gaze darkening slightly. “Knowing someone’s name when they don’t know yours.”
She leans in slightly, smile sharpening. “I’ve always enjoyed a bit of danger.”
He doesn’t step back. If anything, his eyes flick downward, lingering on the curve of her mouth like he’s considering something dangerous. Angela’s pulse kicks hard against her ribs. This isn’t the game she’s supposed to be playing — Wesley is not the mark — but her body doesn’t seem to care. She needs to move, to get away. Focus.
Her skin prickles under the weight of his gaze. Too direct. Too steady. The kind of attention that cuts beneath the surface, beneath her mask. Most men glance. Most men let their eyes slip away when they meet resistance. Wesley doesn’t. He watches her like he’s already halfway through figuring her out, and that in itself sets an alarm off in her head.
Someone brushes past her, and the brief jostle of movement makes her stumble half a step forward. She’s steady on her feet — normally — but tonight feels off, her balance skewed. Wesley’s hand comes up without hesitation, his fingers wrapping lightly around her wrist. His thumb presses to the pulse point at the base of her hand, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Angela’s breath stutters. The way he makes her feel is dangerous, she’s sure of that now.
“You all right?” His voice is low, just for her. Sultry, and almost as if he’s making fun of her. Her jaw clenches for a moment, though she’s silent, for the second.
Her first instinct is to pull away, to slip out of reach before this becomes something she can’t control — but his hand is warm and steady, his touch light but deliberate. A lawyer’s touch. Calculating. Restraining. It shouldn’t feel good, but it does. And she knows she needs to get away, but he's almost too intoxicating.
She steps back, sliding her wrist out of his grip. “Fine,” she says, voice sharper than it needs to be.
Wesley studies her for a beat too long. His gaze flickers toward the edge of the room — toward the knot of men near the bar — and Angela knows exactly what he’s looking at. Elijah, the target, half-listening to the man beside him, his hand curled possessively around his glass, and she knows he’s suspecting already. Too fast, and too quick.
Wesley’s eyes return to her now, assessing.
“You seem distracted,” he says.
Angelas lips curve, but it's not really a smile, more of a predatory smirk. “Just taking in the scenery.”
A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't soften his eyes. They remain cold, calculating - sharp as glass beneath the polished exterior of his suit. He may have looked naive, but he really wasn't. “And what do you see?”
Angelas head tilts slightly. She should walk away. That would be the smart thing, but instead, she steps closer - half a step into dangerous territory. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body beneath the clean scent of his cologne - something subtle, cedar and citrus.
Her gaze flicks toward his tie, slightly loose now. The sharp line of his jaw. The dip of his throat. Then back to his mouth. A mistake. She can’t, she can't get distracted now.
“A lot of money,” she murmurs. “And a lot of power.”
His eyes darken. The shift is subtle but she feels it like a thread of tension winding tight between them. He’s unpredictable, a trait they seem to share.
“And me?”
The question cuts through her like a wire under tension. Thin and dangerous. Her breath catches. Her mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out. Her pulse stutters hard in her throat, sharp enough that it almost hurts. She's a trained LAPD detective, yet a simple man in a navy suit seemed to have her heart caught.
Wesley’s gaze softens, just for a fraction of a second. A flicker of warmth beneath the steel, a quiet question in his eyes. He’s trying to figure her out — trying to slot her into place alongside the rest of the high-society types in this room. But Angela isn’t meant to fit. She isn't one of them. He is, she knows. Yet another reason why she should stay away from him, why this could never turn into something.
She takes a step back, a clean break — or at least it should be. “Excuse me,” she says suddenly. “I should—”
“Of course.”
His tone is perfectly polite, perfectly composed — but his eyes follow her as she walks away. His stare sticks to her like static electricity, sharp at her back. She knows he’s watching her, but his intent remains unclear.
She isn’t used to uncertainty, usually always being the one in control. This lawyer with his cool blue eyes and unshakeable countenance has disarmed her and it scares her.
Angela slips toward the edge of the room, pressing her spine against the cool marble of a column. Her breathing is even, her hands steady — but her heart is a runaway train. She shouldn’t have looked at him. She shouldn’t have let him touch her. Yet she did.
Her earpiece crackles softly. Nyla’s voice slices through the haze in her head, the helpless suffocation that blinds her for the brief moment, before it's gone as quickly as it came, and her focus is clear once more.
“Lopez? You’re supposed to be making contact by now.”
Angela raises a hand to her ear, brushing her fingertips along the line of the earpiece. “I’m working on it.”
“Work faster.”
Angela’s jaw tightens. Her eyes cut across the room, scanning for her target. Elijah is still at the bar — laughing, loose and relaxed. Overconfident. The way men like him always are when they think they’re untouchable.
She steps out from behind the column, cutting toward him in calculated strides. The hum of conversation folds around her, the sound of glass clinking and the low thrum of music from the string quartet in the corner. Her dress feels too tight suddenly, the weight of her concealed weapon pressing against her hip. A reminder.
She’s halfway to the bar when a voice cuts through the noise. Of course.
“Leaving so soon?”
Angela’s pulse spikes.
She turns. Wesley is leaning casually against a pillar, glass in hand, his tie slightly looser now. The top button of his shirt undone, and her eyes are drawn to the smooth skin despite her attempts. His eyes glint beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers, sharp and assessing. Too composed. Too calm. Like he knows exactly how off-balance he’s making her. He’s dangerous, she reminds herself
“I have work to do,” Angela says.
“So I’ve heard.”
Her head tilts slightly. “And what have you heard?”
His gaze sharpens. “That you’re dangerous.”
The words slide under her skin like a scalpel. Her chest tightens. A quiet hum of warning under her skin. “And do you believe everything you hear?”
He steps closer — just half a step — but it feels like a threat. “Not usually,” he says softly. His gaze dips toward her mouth. “But this time… I’m willing to make an exception.”
Her breath stumbles. Her heart slams hard against her ribs, the space between them thin and brittle. The heat of his body, the deliberate weight of his stare — it’s all too much. She feels like a violin string pulled too tight, vibrating under pressure.
Her earpiece crackles again, and she’s thankful for Nyla’s voice pulling her out the fog she’s trapped in.
“Angela. Move.”
She tears her gaze away from Wesley and cuts through the crowd, weaving between the clusters of people. She slips easily into the space next to Elijah. Close enough to see the faint smudge of condensation on his glass. His mouth curves slightly when he sees her — cool, predatory.
He looks her over slowly, from her heels to the neckline of her dress. His gaze slides over her like an oil slick. Angela fights the urge to stiffen. Instead, she slides into the seat across from him, folding her hands neatly on the table. His gaze is unsettling nonetheless, the way it lingers on the emerald fabric hugging her figure.
“Miss?”
Angela’s smile is slow and deliberate. A show of teeth beneath the red curve of her lipstick.
“Mind if I join you?”
Elijah’s mouth lifts at the corner. He likes the game. Most men like the game, aside from the pretentious navy suited one at least.
But it’s not Elijah that Angela feels. It’s Wesley’s stare from across the room. She doesn’t even have to turn her head to know that he’s still watching her. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Like he knows exactly what she’s capable of. As if he knows, exactly, who she is.