“She poured poison into the champagne glass, but the waitress whispered five words that changed everything.

The grand rotunda of the museum was packed with hundreds of the world’s most powerful elite. Champagne flowed freely, laughter echoed off the marble arches, and a thirty-piece orchestra played Vivaldi.

Maya walked through the crowd with her chin high, moving with a fluid, natural grace that turned heads. Several foreign ambassadors and tech moguls cast admiring glances her way, but she kept her gaze focused, scanning the mezzanine.

There he was.

Marcus Sterling stood near the private balcony overlooking the atrium, flanked by four massive private security guards with earpieces. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, his expression cold, calculating, and impatient. Sitting on a marble pedestal next to him was a matte-black titanium briefcase.

Maya took a deep, steadying breath.

*Three... two... one.*

She glided up the marble staircase.

"Pardon me, Mr. Sterling?"

Marcus turned, his cold eyes sweeping over her. For a split second, Maya’s heart hammered against her ribs. Did he recognize her from the security photos? Did he see the terrified server from the country club behind the emerald satin and ruby lipstick?

"Yes?" Marcus asked, his voice sharp, suspicious.

"I am Evelyn Drake," Maya said, offering an effortless, aristocratic smile with a flawless, cultured mid-Atlantic accent. "My uncle Arthur insisted I introduce myself. He said that if I wanted to understand how true logistics empires are built in America, there was only one man worth speaking to."

Marcus’s suspicious scowl softened by a fraction. Greed and vanity were his fatal flaws. Arthur Drake was a legendary British shipping titan; an alliance with the Drake family was worth billions.

"Arthur Drake is a wise man," Marcus said, stepping forward, extending his hand. "I wasn't aware his niece was visiting the States."

Maya took his hand, letting her fingers linger in his grip, stepping in half an inch closer than social etiquette dictated. With her left hand, she casually brought the gold compact out of her purse, letting it brush gently against the left lapel of Marcus’s tuxedo jacket—right over his interior pocket.

*One...*

"The States are fascinating, Mr. Sterling," Maya said, her eyes locked onto his, radiating pure, magnetic charm. "Though I must say, the social scene in DC is far more dangerous than London."

*Two...*

Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly, a sudden flicker of unease darting across his weathered face. "Dangerous, Miss Drake? In what way?"

*Three.*

*BEEP-BEEP.*

The high-frequency tone sounded softly in Maya’s earpiece. The cloning was complete.

"In every way," Maya murmured, offering him a dazzling smile as she withdrew her hand and stepped back. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Sterling."

She turned and began walking smoothly toward the gallery exit.

"Wait," Marcus’s voice cut through the air behind her like a whip.

Maya froze, her muscles locking beneath the emerald satin.

Marcus stepped forward, his eyes suddenly dropping to the delicate curve of her right wrist.

There, visible just beneath her pearl bracelet, was a tiny, fresh crimson scratch—the mark left by the broken champagne glass Maya had shattered on the floor of *The Bellevue Club* thirty-six hours ago.

Marcus’s face transformed into a mask of demonic fury.

"It’s you," Marcus snarled, his voice a guttural roar. "The waitress!"

Before his guards could draw their weapons, Marcus lunged, his fingers reaching to grab Maya’s throat.

*THWACK.*

A high-powered smoke canister smashed through the museum’s glass skylight, detonating in mid-air.

Instantly, the entire rotunda was plunged into pitch-black darkness as the auxiliary power grid was severed with surgical precision.

Screams erupted from the crowd. Three hundred billionaires panicked in the blinding smoke, knocking over champagne flutes and crashing into display cases.

"Kill her!" Marcus screamed through the chaos. "Kill the girl!"

Through the thick, blinding smoke, two of Marcus’s armed guards rushed Maya. But before they could take two steps, a shadow descended from the mezzanine scaffolding.

Julian Vance hit the first guard with a flying knee strike that sent the man crashing over the marble balustrade. He caught the second guard by the wrist, disarmed his suppressed pistol in a single, fluid motion, and drove an elbow into the man’s sternum, dropping him instantly to the floor.

Julian grabbed Maya by the waist, pulling her behind a massive marble pillar as suppressed gunfire chewed through the stone, sending sharp chips flying into the dark.

"Are you hit?" Julian barked, his eyes scanning her in the strobing emergency lights.

"No! I have the clone!" Maya yelled over the din, holding up the gold compact. "The data is copied!"

"Good," Julian said, his eyes blazing with feral intensity. "Because Marcus just initiated the manual override on the Genesis briefcase. He’s running for the rooftop helipad!"

Julian racked the slide on his weapon, looked at Maya, and took her hand.