PAUL BISHOP

  The dining hall at Villa Dahan looked like something out of a Versailles-lite catalog—crystal chandeliers, floral arrangements that needed their own zip code, and a table long enough to host a G7 summit.

  And I’d seen interrogation rooms with more warmth.

  Everyone was seated before Leila and I entered.

  Her father, the infamous Victor Dahan, had arrived at some point during the last hour—middle height, silver brown haired, and radiating disappointment like it was cologne. I gave him a quick handshake the moment I walked in.

  Leila’s mother was presiding at the center of the table, flanked by her daughters, with Nathan slouched at the end, whispering something to the girl beside him.

  That girl?

  Had to be Zoey.

  She was petite, with wide eyes and long hair that fell like a curtain she kept trying not to hide behind. Cute, but not overly done—blush on her cheeks like she hadn’t expected to be noticed. She wore a dress that was just a little too formal for her comfort, and when she saw me walk in with Leila, she stiffened like she’d just spotted a wolf.

  Nathan’s whispering stopped.

  Completely.

  “Thank you for joining us, Leila,” Leila’s mother said. “Your father is ecstatic to see you.”

  Leila’s grip tightened slightly on my arm.

  I played the role.

  I leaned in. Whispered just loud enough. “Your younger sister’s in another designer gown. Your older sister looks like she wants to murder us. Your little brother has a date. And you…you’ve got one shot to beat the table. Ready?”

  She breathed in. Collected. “Always.”

  We took our seats, and the performance began.

  I giggled to myself. Narrating my own situation. I’m so silly.

  Amira, now in a figure-hugging silk dress with hair perfectly curled and lip gloss that reflected light like a weapon, sat directly across from me. She twirled her fork absently. Didn’t touch her food.

  But her eyes never left me.

  “Paul,” she said sweetly, “you never told us how you and Leila met. I assume it was love at first sight?”

  Leila started to speak.

  I cut in smoothly. “Not quite. It was mutual hatred at first sight.”

  Amira tilted her head, intrigued.

  “She thought I was an arrogant American. I thought she was too good for the party we were both trapped at.”

  “I was too good for it,” Leila muttered.

  “And I wasn’t arrogant,” I added. “Just right.”

  Her father, Victor Dahan, coughed. “And what do you do, Mr. Bishop?”

  Ah. The trap.

  I smiled. “Independent consulting.”

  “In what field?”

  “Risk management. Strategy. Private sector contracts and Security.”

  “Military Clearance?” her mother asked, too casually.

  “I prefer not to discuss former employers. But I’m not here on business. I’m here for Leila.”

  Leila’s mother studied me like she was trying to find the hairline crack in a marble statue.

  Beside her, Amira sipped wine and didn’t blink.

  Nathan finally spoke. “He is way better than any of your other boyfriends Leila. He plays Overwatch. Like, disgustingly well.”

  Her father blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind,” Nathan muttered, then leaned toward Zoey. “My only complaint is he is too damn handsome. It's like he’s photo shopped.”

  “Nathan!” Her Mother exclaimed. “Language.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Nathan rolled his eyes and looked at Zoey, who turned beet red.

  Leila’s older sister, Selene, gave me a lingering glance over her wine glass, as if re-evaluating the chessboard.

  Her husband finally chimed in, gesturing lazily with a fork. “So you’re a gun-for-hire with manners. How charming. Must be exhausting pretending to enjoy foie gras and trying to fit in with your betters..”

  I leaned forward slightly. “Not at all. I enjoy watching rich assholes’ attempts to sound clever.”

  The table froze.

  Leila smothered a laugh in her napkin.

  Her mother’s lips twitched. That was either a warning... or amusement.

  Nathan laughed openly.

  Even Leila's father cracked a smile.

  The husband just glared at me.

  By the time the third course arrived—some poached sea creature I refused to identify—the mood had shifted.

  Zoey relaxed enough to speak above a whisper. Nathan was clearly smitten, was giving her bites off his plate explaining what each dish was, how the chief made and its origin.

  The kid was nervous but doing well. I was proud of him. I may have given him a bit of advice earlier.

  Amira had gone quiet, her efforts not unnoticed but now dulled by something else. Frustration, maybe.

  Selen remained poised but pensive, watching Leila like she was waiting for a move she hadn’t made yet. Her eyes kept flicking towards me.

  Leila sat straighter than ever, face unreadable, but I could feel the slight change in her posture. She wasn’t alone in this room anymore. She had backup. And it showed.

  Her mother tapped a wine glass lightly.

  “I must say, Paul,” she said smoothly, “you’re remarkably composed.”

  “Years of experience,” I said, nodding. “Strange rooms. Staring eyes. People expecting me to fail. It all comes with the job.”

  Her eyes met mine. “No. Your mannerisms are too polished. I feel like you’ve had formal etiquette training.”

  I grinned. “Oh that. Of course. When you're a spy with a license to kill it comes with the territory.”

  Her mother didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t smile.

  Didn’t blink.

  A perfect portrait of composure, but I saw it—the flicker of something behind her eyes. Not surprising. Not amusement. Something closer to calculation.

  “Oh,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “You’re funny.”

  “I try,” I said, reaching for my own glass. “Most people either laugh or double-check the exits.”

  From beside me, Leila’s hand brushed mine again under the table—intentional this time. Her thumb grazed the back of my knuckles, not in affection, but in quiet approval. Like a general silently promoting a soldier.

  Her father leaned forward for the first time, folding his hands like he was about to deliver a eulogy.

  “I’ve had to deal with my fair share of… strategic relationships, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “People appearing for appearances. Charming for sport.”

  I nodded. “And I imagine most of them tried too hard.”

  He paused, mouth curving faintly. “Yes. They usually do.”

  “So what about me?” I asked, placing my fork down deliberately. “Too much? Or not enough?”

  The question hung in the air. Tense. Bold.

  Then—his head tilted slightly. “I am reserving judgment.”

  That earned a small chuckle from the far end of the table—Nathan, who had clearly stopped trying to impress Zoey and was now just enjoying the show.

  Amira said nothing, but she was watching again. Her wineglass rested untouched. The gloss on her lips had faded.

  Selene leaned toward Leila just enough for their shoulders to brush.

  “Mother isn’t playing tonight,” she murmured.

  Leila didn’t look at her. “Neither am I.”

  The final course was served: a delicate pastry with something sweet and probably French layered inside. But no one seemed particularly focused on it. The real meal had been the conversation.

  As the plates were cleared, her father stood first, murmured something to his wife, and left with the air of a man who had appointments with governments. The rest of the family followed in trickles—Amira offering a tight smile, Selene whispering something else I didn’t catch, and Nathan walking backward so he could talk to Zoey with a dopey grin that might’ve melted her heart a little.

  Soon it was just me, Leila, and her mother at the long, echoing table.

  She stood slowly.

  “Thank you for joining us, Paul. You’re… interesting.”

  I winked. “That’s one word for it.”

  She gave Leila a long look. Something silent passed between them—something sharp.

  And then she was gone, heels clicking with surgical precision down the hall.

  ---

  We stayed at the table for a moment longer, both of us silent.

  Then Leila let out a slow breath and slouched an inch.

  “Good lord,” she muttered, closing her eyes. “That was exhausting.”

  “You were perfect. If I didn’t know any better I’d thought you were hopelessly in love with me.”

  She glanced at me, her lips quirking. “You are outrageous? You basically told my mother you were a spy.”

  “Would’ve told your dad I was an assassin, but dessert came too fast.”

  She snorted, pushing back from the table. “Come on. If I sit here any longer, I’ll drown in tension and truffle oil.”

  We walked the dim corridor side by side. Somewhere in the distance, I heard faint classical music and the clinking of ice in a glass. The villa was alive in that quiet, moneyed way—rooms softly lit, voices always low, power carefully masked by manners.

  As we reached the stairs, Leila paused.

  “All things considered,” she said. “ That went better than I expected.”

  “I aim to exceed expectations.”

  She turned to face me. “No, really. You held your own. They were circling.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And you didn’t flinch.”

  I shrugged. “They’re used to people trying to fit in. I never try. And they don’t understand it.”

  “You really were a spy, weren’t you?”

  “Would you believe me if I said no?”

  She gave me a calculating look. “I am not so sure now.”

  Instead, I offered her a crooked smile. “Go get some rest, Leila.”

  She hesitated, eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary.

  “Actually,” she said, “can you give me a few moments? And then will you take a walk with me?”

  I gave her a soft smile. “Sure.”