I play my role flawlessly, offering the rehearsed story with just enough genuine emotion to make it believable. I laugh at the right moments, ask thoughtful questions about their children or recent vacations, and deflect inquiries about wedding plans with charming vagueness.
All the while, my mind catalogs every useful scrap of information. Senator Mitchell mentions in passing that he’s reviewing pharmaceutical import regulations. Judge Lowell complains about a Korean trade delegation that’s been throwing its weight around. The hospital chairman jokes about a recentwindfall from an anonymous donor that coincided with a zoning approval for a new parking structure.
I’m so focused on information gathering that I almost miss the familiar face on the far side of the room. Professor James Wong, my mother’s colleague from the university, is deep in conversation with a gray-haired man whose back is to me. Wong’s eyes meet mine over his companion’s shoulder, and I see recognition followed by something like alarm.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to Eleanor, who has been mid-sentence about someone’s scandalous divorce. “I’ve just spotted an old friend.”
She follows my gaze. “Ah, Professor Wong. Such a brilliant man, though a bit of a bore at parties. All that talk of geopolitical theory and supply chain vulnerabilities. I’ll catch up with you later, dear.”
I weave through the crowd, maintaining a pleasant smile as I dodge conversations and waiters with trays of champagne. By the time I reach Wong, his companion has moved on, leaving him alone with a tumbler of amber liquid.
He sees me, and a flicker of alarm crosses his face before he can school his features. He makes a quarter-turn as if to move away, but it’s too late.
“Professor,” I say, my voice warmer than I feel. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation last time.”
The statement is a direct reference to our interrupted talk at the senator’s dinner last month. “Lea. I wasn’t aware you’d be here.” His eyes dart nervously past my shoulder, searching for Nico.
“He’s busy,” I say, stepping closer to block his view, creating a bubble of forced intimacy. “Tell me what you couldn’t say last time. You said my mother was tapping doors few would dare to open. What did you mean?”
“This isn’t the place,” he hisses, his gaze skittering around the room.
“It’s the only place I have,” I press, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s in Seoul, unreachable. You’re here. Talk to me, Professor. What kind of international stakeholders is she involved with?” I pause, then deliver the probe. “North Koreans?”
The color drains from his face, leaving his skin papery and thin under the crystal chandeliers. “Who told you that?” he says, his grip tightening on his glass.
“Is it true?”
He drains his glass in one quick, desperate motion, setting the empty tumbler down on a passing waiter’s tray with a hand that isn’t quite steady. “Be careful, Lea. Some knowledge can’t be unlearned. Your motherunderstoodthat better than most.”
A chill goes through me.Understood.As if she’s gone. As if it’s over.
“Understood?” I breathe, my blood running cold. “What are you?—”
“Professor Wong.” Nico’s voice is a blade cutting through our tense exchange. He materializes at my side, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that is pure possession. “I see you enjoy spending time with my fiancée.”
Wong flinches, straightening into a posture of rigid formality. “Mr. Varela. We were just... catching up.”
“Were you?” Nico’s eyes are chips of obsidian, and I can feel the anger coiling in the muscles of his arm. “It looked to be a little more than that. What secrets were you two sharing?”
The question is aimed at Wong, but the warning is for me.
“No secrets,” Wong stammers, already backing away. “Just academic concerns. If you’ll excuse me...”
He melts into the crowd, a man desperate to escape. I turn to face Nico, his hand still a steel band at my waist, pinning me to his side.
“Fascinating performance,” I say, my voice sharp. “He was terrified.”
“As he should be,” Nico replies, his gaze following Wong’s retreat. He turns his cold eyes back to me. “And so should you be. What exactly did you ask him? Something about your mother, no doubt?”
“Nothing I haven’t already asked you,” I reply, my gaze steady. “The difference is, he seemed genuinely concerned about my mother and me. You, on the other hand, seem only concerned with getting what you need.”
His jaw tightens. “This isn’t the place for this discussion.”
“Is there ever a right place? You’ve been avoiding my questions.”
Around us, the party continues in full swing. A string quartet has begun playing in the corner, and couples are moving to a cleared area that serves as a dance floor. Nico glances around, clearlyaware that several people are watching our intense exchange with poorly disguised interest.
Without warning, he takes my hand. “Dance with me,” he says, his tone making it clear this is not a request.
