xxiv. A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

ÉLYSÉE PALACE, PARIS

It is a universally acknowledged truth that a hungry teenage girl can be more dangerous than a gorilla with chainsaws for hands.

I was starving—the agency decided that debriefing us one last time was more important than feeding us.

At the very least, my rubber gun had been upgraded to a real pistol. The gun was non-ferrous, meaning none of the metal detectors would be able to detect it. The weapon awkwardly weighed down my purse as I grabbed an horderve.

"Are you sure you can handle a real gun?" Ace whispered into his earpiece.

I glare at him from across the room. "What's that supposed to mean?" I respond.

"Well, you're impulsive, easily irritated, and you lack hand-eye coordination. Shall I continue?"

"Why don't you come over here and I'll show you just how well I can aim."

"Please, you'd end up accidentally killing Deschamps," Ace scoffs.

"Why do you enjoy provoking people so much?"

"Only you. Besides, you're not so much a person as a rabid raccoon."

"Wow, am I that special?" I state drly.

"That's enough you two. I can barely hear my own thoughts," Xavier spits. "Don't make me put a bullet down both your throats."

"Remember the mission—heads up for anyone suspicious," Skye reminds. "Go socialize."

Gross. Socializing.

What sucked even more was that there was absolutely no alcohol present at this awards dinner. What kind of rich people event didn't have rich alcohol?

We were stationed in various parts of the ballroom to cover the most ground. Our assignment was to make sure Ambassador Grant Deschamps made it out of this dinner in one piece. There would be mercenaries, assassins, and thieves, all targeting the various politicians here.

You know, right in my alley. As a goddamn sedentary hacker.

I stuff another horderve and mentally curse myself for joining this team.

The interior of the gala was, to say the least, like Disneyland for rich people. By that I mean all the horderves were foreign and too hard to pronounce, the attendees were two times older than me, and the outfits here costed more than my apartment.

The guests here were all important people—diplomats, billionaires, and politicians. I felt like all their net worths were more than the GDP of several countries.

The Élysée Palace had high ceilings carved out of marble, giving the entire room a Grecian-esque ambiance. High strung chandeliers donned out a golden hue on all of the dresses in the room. Classical rich-people music swirled around the ivory walls, tying the room together like a pretentious present.

Everyone looked stunning tonight; Skye wore a jade green gown, Chase wore a silver-grey suit, and Xavier wore a navy one. It was unfair that they were all skilled and drop-dead gorgeous.

Ace, on the other hand, seemed otherworldly. He wore a deep red suit that against his tall frame, made him stand out in the crowd.

Everyone at the dinner were wearing masquerade masks which hid our faces. My fingers brush against my satin mask to adjust it. Ace's golden eyes were amplified by the allure of the mask; they had attracted quite a bit of attention among the female guests. I too, found myself captivated.

Might as well enjoy the view while I'm here, amirite.

Ace turned to meet my gaze just as I was staring at him. Noticing my stare, he smirks, and I casually flip him off.

Our relationship in a nutshell.

Music begins to swirl louder into the room; people around us begin to couple up to dance. A finger taps on my shoulder. I turn to see the source of the interaction: a well built man wearing a classically black suit.

"Care to dance?" He asks. A hint of a smirk passes on his face when my jaw opens ajar.

"Sure," I try to play off. On the inside, I was panicking. Be cool Octavia. It's just a cute and probably rich guy that wants to dance with you.

His hand cups the small of my back. Leading, he brings me close to him as we sway to the music. I stare at his feet in an attempt to keep up with the music. Gently, he tilts my chin up to meet his crystal blue eyes.

I immediately step on his foot.

"Sorry," I mumble sheepishly. "I can barely walk so imagine the difficulty I'd have dancing."

"Don't worry, this is out of my comfort zone too," he reassures. A hint of a British accent tints each of his words.

"I'm Sophia, American consulate," I lie.

"Nice to meet you Sophia." His eyes hold their gaze. "I'm Daniel, angel investor."

"What's an angel investor doing at a state's dinner?"

"Trying to make connections, especially with American consulates."

Shit. "Do you want me to introduce you?" Please say no, please say no.

"No need. I think my plans for the night just changed," he smirks.

A red blush spread over my cheeks. Daniel was incredibly charismatic. In the ballroom, many gave me looks of sheer envy, under the pretense that he chose me over them.

As my eyes continue to scan the room over Daniel's shoulder, I notice a blonde woman in a black dress speaking to a security guard. The guard looks around then lets the woman slip by.

"Excuse me Daniel," I mutter. "I'm going to use the restroom."

His face falters a little. "Of course. I hope to see you again sometime, Sophia."

I leave the slightly upset angel investor alone, on the ballroom floor.

"Seven o'clock," I whisper over the earpiece. "Someone just slipped into another room. I'll go check it out."

"I'll come with you," Ace instructs. "Everyone else, keep an eye on Deschamps."

Ace and I converge paths as we approach the same guard that let the woman through earlier. We weave through the sea of couples rocking softly to the music.

"Act drunk," Ace whispers. 

Quickly, I slump against the spy as he supports me up by my waist. The guard raises his eyebrows in amusement as we come closer him.

"Could we slip by? We made the mistake of getting tipsy beforehand. My girlfriend is terribly drunk, and if our boss finds out, he'd kick us out of the embassy. I don't want to embarrass the American consulate."

My girlfriend?

The guard chuckles a little. "Les Américains. Sneaking in alcohol even at a formal event. I'd like to help, really, but no one is allowed to go past this perimeter."

I clutch my stomach and pretend to hurl. At the sight, other guests begin to look at me with a disgusted face. The guard, noticing that we're attracting an audience, begrudgingly lets us leave the ballroom.

"Please lead us to the nearest bathrooms," Ace continues.

Annoyed at the Americans, much like the rest of the world, the guard leads us down a silent corridor to a bathroom where presumably, I could throw up without disturbing everyone else.

When we were out of earshot, Ace slams the guard against the wall and easily restrains him. The bewildered guard tries to call his earpiece; I stomp it out with my high heel before he can call for backup.

"Please, monsieur, don't hurt me," the guard pleads, "I just work here."

"Why did you let that woman go?" Ace interrogates.

The power behind Ace's tone even scared me a little. The guard looks at us, wide-eyed, and gives in.

"She...she told me she was with the CIA," he whimpers.

Shit. Ace and I look to one another. A worrying realization hit us at the same time. We were the only team the CIA sent here—she was posing as an agent.

Ace: "Vote Sweetheart, and I'll dance with you."