The final ritual of preparation didn't involve silk or pearls. It involved the biting scent of gun oil and the heavy, industrial click of magazines being seated into holsters. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in our suite, watching a stranger stare back at me. The suit Kasper had provided was a masterpiece of lethal engineering—matte black, flexible Kevlar that hugged my frame like a second skin, reinforced at the joints with lightweight titanium. It was the clothing of a commando, not a debutante, and yet, as I fastened the high collar, I had never felt more like a queen.
Kasper walked up behind me, his reflection joining mine. He had traded his usual tailored blazer for a tactical vest worn over a dark dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms. He looked at the scar on my chest, visible just above the neckline of the suit, and then met my eyes in the glass.
