CHAPTER 2: THE ART OF THE MASK
The transformation began at 4:00 AM in the sterile, white-tiled bathroom of their safehouse.
Orissa sat in the chair, eyes closed, as Beatrix worked with the precision of a surgeon. The scent of chemicals filled the air. "Open," Beatrix commanded.
Orissa opened her eyes. The familiar chocolate brown was gone, replaced by a striking, honey-amber tint from the medical-grade lenses. "The hair is next," Beatrix murmured. She didn't just dye it; she applied a mahogany glaze that made Orissa's hair look thicker, richer, and completely foreign.
"You aren't Orissa tonight," Beatrix whispered, tilting Orissa's chin up. "You are Isabella Vane. You were born in a villa in Tuscany. You find the American elite 'quaint' and slightly beneath you. If a man looks at you, you don't smile. You let him wonder if he's worth your time."
Across the room, Ivy was hunched over three laptops. Her fingers were stained with ink from forging the invitation cards. "I've finished the backstories for the other two. Beatrix, you're 'Sasha Volkov,' the daughter of a Ukrainian steel magnate. I've scrubbed your blonde hair to a platinum ice. And I," Ivy smirked, "am the invisible girl. A catering lead for the museum."
"The goal for tonight isn't Sam," Orissa reminded them, her voice taking on the practiced, melodic lilt of her new persona. "We need to hit the 'Generals' first. Marcus Thorne was the bank. Now we need the keys to the city."
The Oakhaven Museum of Art – 9:00 PM
The Gala was a sea of black ties and floor-length silk. The "Inner Circle" sat at a long, elevated table in the center of the hall. These were the men who helped Sam's father dismantle their families: Julian Vane (The Tech Mogul) and Silas Vance (The Media Tycoon).
Beatrix as Sasha made her move first. She didn't walk toward Julian Vane; she walked past him, her icy platinum hair shimmering under the chandeliers. She "accidentally" dropped a vintage gold lighter near his foot.
When Julian leaned down to pick it up, he was met with a gaze so cold it was intoxicating. Within ten minutes, she had him in a corner of the balcony, laughing at his jokes while her hidden ring equipped with a micro-scanner was busy cloning the encrypted security fob in his breast pocket.
Meanwhile, Ivy moved through the crowd in a stiff white tuxedo jacket, carrying a tray of appetizers. To the billionaires, she was just part of the furniture. But every time she set a plate down, she was planting "bugs" microscopic listening devices that would record every bribe and secret deal whispered over dinner.
But the real game was on the dance floor.
Orissa, in her emerald velvet gown, waited. She watched Silas Vance, the man who had written the lies that sent her father to prison. He was older, lecherous, and loved to be seen with beautiful women.
She caught his eye from across the room and gave him a look of profound boredom. It worked like a charm. Silas left his group of investors and marched toward her.
"I haven't seen a face like yours in Oakhaven," Silas said, his voice thick with self-importance. "And I know everyone."
"Perhaps you haven't been looking in the right places, Mr. Vance," Orissa replied, her Italian accent flawlessly thick. She let him lead her to the floor. As they danced, she leaned in, her hand resting on his shoulder right over the pocket where he kept his private phone.
"You seem... distracted," she murmured, her honey-amber eyes locking onto his.
"I'm just wondering how a woman like you ended up in a room full of boring businessmen," Silas smiled.
"I'm looking for an investment," Orissa whispered, her fingers subtly sliding a "sniffer" chip into the seam of his tuxedo. "I heard you were a man who knows how to make things... disappear."
Silas chuckled, feeling powerful. He had no idea that in forty-five seconds, every contact, email, and deleted photo on his phone was being mirrored to Ivy's laptop in the van outside.
The Shadow in the Corner
While Orissa played Silas and Beatrix drained Julian Vane's security codes, a figure watched from the dark mezzanine above.
Sam Lutanza didn't dance. He didn't drink. He stood with his hands behind his back, his grey eyes scanning the room like a hawk. He had seen the "Siren" in platinum silver. He had seen the "Server" who moved with too much grace for a caterer.
And then, he saw the girl in emerald.
He didn't recognize her face the mahogany hair and amber eyes were a perfect mask. But he watched the way she moved. He watched the way she tilted her head when she was lying. It was a habit he remembered from a garden ten years ago. A habit of a girl named Orissa.
He didn't call security. He didn't stop her.
He pulled a small, silver coin from his pocket the one he had found on his pillow. He flipped it in the air and caught it.
"Chapter one was yours, little ghost," Sam whispered to the empty air. "But chapter two belongs to me."
Down on the floor, Orissa felt a chill run down her spine. She looked up toward the mezzanine, but the shadow was gone.
"O, we're done," Ivy's voice hissed in her ear. "Beatrix has the fob. I have the media server. We need to vanish before the midnight toast. The FBI is outside."
"Copy that," Orissa said, disentangling herself from Silas Vance with a charming, fake promise to call him later.
The three girls moved toward the service exit, blending into the chaos of the departing guests. They had the keys. They had the data. They had successfully hit two CEOs in one night without a single alarm going off.
But as they piled into the black SUV in the alleyway, Orissa looked back at the museum.
"He was watching," she said, her breath fogging the window.
"Who? Vance?" Beatrix asked, wiping the platinum spray from her hair.
"No," Orissa said, her voice trembling slightly. "Sam. He didn't see Isabella Vane. He was looking for me."
"Did he stop us?" Ivy asked, already checking the encryption on the stolen files.
"No," Orissa replied. "He let us win. And that's what scares me."