The bridal suite smells like money roses, perfume, and that faint whiff of desperation only the rich can afford.
I'm standing in front of Isabella Montague, the city's golden girl, with a gun pointed at her perfect face. My mask hides my grin, but oh, I'm enjoying this. Look at her, all dolled up in white lace, like a cupcake begging to be unwrapped. Too bad I'm not here for dessert.
My finger rests lightly on the trigger, not because I plan to shoot, but because it keeps her eyes wide and her hands shaking. God, those diamonds on her neck could buy a small country. Or at least a really nice yacht. Focus, Elena. You're here to steal her life, not her jewelry.
Isabella's voice trembles as she backs against the vanity, her veil catching on a crystal vase. She's trying to be brave, but her lips quiver like she's about to cry. Poor little heiress. Bet she's never had a gun in her face before. Welcome to my world, princess.
She's babbling now, offering me money, property, anything I want. Anything, huh? Tempting. I could use a penthouse. Or maybe her private chef. Does she have one? Probably.
I tilt my head, letting her squirm. Her blue eyes are huge, pleading, and for a second, I almost feel bad. Almost. Then I remember why I'm here: Damian Blackwood, the man she's about to marry. The man I'm supposed to destroy.
Oh! Damian, you delicious disaster. I've studied his file for weeks those gray eyes, that sharp jaw, that scar that makes him look like he could ruin you and you'd thank him for it.
Ruthless, cruel, and probably a terrible kisser. Okay, maybe not that last part. A girl can dream. My mission is simple: take Isabella's place, get close to Damian, and bring him down.
The agency says he's a monster running a criminal empire. Sounds like my kind of guy. Not that I'm falling for him.. ew, no. I'm Elena Voss, top agent, queen of getting in and out without a scratch.
Well, except that one time in Prague. We don't talk about Prague. This job's just another game, and I always win.
I step closer, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Isabella flinches, and I bite back a laugh. Relax, sweetheart, I'm not here to kill you. That'd be messy, and this dress is too pretty for bloodstains.
I'm wearing black tactical gear under my mask, but soon I'll be in her wedding gown, playing the blushing bride. Blushing? Me? Ha. I'll be smirking all the way to the altar. My heart's racing, not from nerves but from the thrill. This is what I live for outsmarting everyone, slipping into someone else's life like it's a pair of stilettos. And let's be honest, I look better in this dress than she does.
I lower the gun just a bit, enough to make her think she's got a chance. Come on, Isabella, give me something to work with. Say something dumb so I can roll my eyes. She's still offering me her family's fortune, her voice high and desperate. "Girl, I don't want your daddy's money. I want your husband-to-be. Not like that.... okay, maybe a little like that. Have you seen his jawline?," I shake my head, keeping my focus.
The agency drilled it into me: Damian's dangerous, a killer who took out his own uncle. Bet he's got trust issues. Same, buddy, same. My job is to get close, find his secrets, and hand them over. Easy Or not. Nothing's ever easy with guys who look like they could break your heart and your neck in the same breath.
I move closer, and she freezes, her back against the mirror. Oh, honey, you're making this too easy. My free hand slips into my pocket, pulling out a syringe. Nap time, princess.
I need her out, not dead. The agency's got plans for her, and I don't ask questions. Mostly because they never answer. Rude. I smile under my mask, calm and teasing, like I'm about to share a joke. What do I want? Oh, just your whole life. No biggie. I lunge, quick and light, tapping the syringe against her neck. She gasps, her eyes rolling back as she slumps to the floor. Night-night, Isabella. Don't hate me too much.
I catch her before she hits the ground, easing her onto a velvet chair. Can't have you bruising that pretty face. I need it to sell this. I pull off my mask, shaking out my hair.
God, masks are so sweaty. Why can't spy work be glamorous?
My face is her face same cheekbones, same blue eyes, same everything. Creepy, right? I'm like her hotter, smarter twin. If she wasn't such a goody-goody, we'd probably be friends. The agency didn't explain why we look identical, and I didn't push. Yet. I'll figure it out. I always do.
I strip off my gear and slip into her wedding gown, the silk cool against my skin. Oh, this is nice. Bet it cost more than my last three missions combined. I adjust the veil, checking myself in the mirror. Damn, Elena, you're a vision. Damian's gonna choke when he sees me.
I practice Isabella's smile sweet, shy, boring. Ugh, how does she live like this? I'd rather stab myself with this veil pin. But I nail it. Years of training, baby. I can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. And right now, I'm Isabella Montague, about to marry the city's most dangerous man. No pressure.
Damian's out there, probably glaring at everyone, looking like a storm in a suit. Wonder if he's as hot in person. Stop it, Elena. Focus. My mission's clear: play the part, get his trust, dig up his secrets. The agency says he's evil, but I've got a nose for lies, and something about this job smells off. Like, why me? Why the lookalike thing? And why's Marcus so cagey? My handler's hiding something, but I'll deal with that later. Right now, I've got a wedding to crash.
I glance at Isabella, out cold, her chest rising and falling. Sorry, girl. You'll wake up with a headache and a hell of a story. I adjust my veil, smirking at my reflection. Time to meet my husband-to-be. Hope he's ready for me, because I'm definitely ready for him. I slip out of the suite, my heart pounding with excitement. Let's do this, Elena. Time to be the Queen.