Istanbul, 2:17 a.m.
The city breathed like a dragon at night—its lights shimmering over the Bosphorus like molten gold, the air thick with the scent of salt, history, and secrets too old to forget. From the rooftop of an abandoned Ottoman mansion, Selene Vale crouched in silence, the cold steel of her knife kissing her thigh.
She'd been waiting exactly thirty-eight minutes.
The wind carried the sound of distant music and laughter from a private yacht bobbing on the dark water. She could just make out the profile of her mark from here—Alexander Voss, billionaire tech magnate, philanthropist, and the man everyone thought was building a better world.
Selene knew better. Every man who touched power built his castle on a graveyard.
And her job… was to dig the grave.
Through her thermal scope, she watched him. He stood at the bow of the yacht, drink in hand, surrounded by politicians and sharp-dressed men who had the look of men who'd killed with money rather than bullets. His laugh cut through the night like it belonged in another life. Carefree. Charming. Unaware.
She hated that sound.
Or she wanted to.
"You're hesitating," a voice crackled in her ear. Male. Cold. The Handler.
"I'm waiting," Selene whispered.
"You don't wait. You kill. You slip in, you slit the throat, you vanish."
"Too many eyes. He's not isolated."
A pause.
"He's scheduled to speak at the Summit in Paris next week. If he makes it there, the deal's off. Our client wants him dead before he opens his mouth."
"I know."
"You've got forty-eight hours."
The line went dead. Just like her soul had years ago.
---
The truth was: she had studied Alexander Voss for months.
She knew his gait, the angle at which he tilted his chin when he was thinking. She knew how many sugars he stirred into his espresso (none). She'd seen the scar behind his left ear from a childhood accident no media outlet had ever uncovered. She knew his secrets.
Except the one that mattered most: Why did a man who claimed to save the world need to die?
Her clients never gave reasons. Orchid's Fang—a hidden syndicate of corporate killers—operated on code, not conscience.
Selene didn't ask questions.
She only obeyed.
But this time… this time felt different.
---
Three Days Earlier
Venice, Italy
It was raining when she walked into the glass atrium of the Novella Lux Hotel—a place reserved for men who owned empires and the women who destroyed them.
She wore black silk, slit high enough to silence a room. Her hair was pinned in a cascade of obsidian waves. Her name was not Selene tonight. It was Eva Moreau, French-educated, Paris-based art consultant, and former curator at the Louvre—according to the forged credentials Orchid had prepared for her.
"Eva Moreau," she told the receptionist, her voice a velvet caress. "Room under the Voss Foundation."
The woman blinked, flustered, tapping at her screen. "Yes, of course, Miss Moreau. Mr. Voss checked in an hour ago. He's in the private suite—penthouse level."
Selene nodded once, a smirk playing on her lips. "He asked for company. I'm here to entertain."
It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.
As the elevator ascended, she stared at her reflection in the brass-paneled walls. Cool. Composed. Controlled. The killer in her skin was always waiting.
---
The penthouse smelled of bergamot, aged whiskey, and a life untouched by fear. She stepped in like smoke, heels muffled against imported wool carpets. Alexander Voss stood by the fireplace, unshaven, in a slate-gray shirt rolled at the sleeves, forearms tanned and veined from swimming and luxury workouts.
She watched him before speaking.
He looked... different than she expected. Less cold. More human.
"Mr. Voss," she purred, "I wasn't sure if you liked your art bold or subtle."
He turned.
And smiled.
"Eva Moreau. The woman who turned down three of my acquisition offers."
"I like to keep my clients curious."
"Then we're off to a good start."
She tilted her head. "Am I your client?"
"For tonight," he said, pouring two glasses of wine.
And just like that, the game began.
---
They dined on saffron risotto and seared scallops. He told her about his foundation's mission to end war profiteering through digital transparency. She nodded, flirted, played the role. Inside, her mind memorized every camera angle, every window latch, every place a knife could enter without a scream.
"You don't talk like other billionaires," she said, swirling her wine.
"And you don't look like any curator I've met," he replied, gaze flicking briefly to the scar on her collarbone.
She touched it instinctively.
He noticed.
"I was attacked during a Cairo exhibition," she lied easily. "Some men don't like women in control."
"I find it irresistible."
There was a pause.
Then heat.
Then danger.
He leaned in closer. "Tell me, Eva—are you dangerous?"
She smiled, slow and deadly. "Would it scare you if I was?"
"No," he said. "But it would make me wonder what you're running from."
And for the first time in years, her heart missed a beat.
---
She didn't kill him that night.
She could have.
While he undressed her with his eyes and spoke of stars above ruined cities. While his hand brushed hers and she felt her edges blur.
Instead, she waited.
Watched.
Wondered.
And slipped out before dawn like a ghost.
---
Back in Istanbul, Present Night
The scope blinked red. Target re-acquired.
Alexander Voss was returning to the city after his yacht party. His convoy would pass the abandoned east pier in twelve minutes.
Selene moved quickly, descending the building's rusted skeleton. Her black bodysuit absorbed the shadows. Her boots made no sound. The Glock was silenced. The blade was ready.
She made it to the pier with time to spare.
Wind howled around her like a warning.
Then came the sound of engines. Four SUVs, bulletproof glass, black as ink. His was second from the front.
She positioned herself atop a shipping crate, aiming down. The perfect line of fire. One breath, one shot. He would never know she was there.
But then…
Then something happened.
She hesitated.
The window rolled down slightly. He was drinking coffee. Not whiskey. He looked exhausted. He was alone.
Vulnerable.
And for a second, he didn't look like a target.
He looked like a man.
Her finger curled.
And froze.
She couldn't explain it.
But she didn't shoot.
Instead, she whispered into her comms: "Abort."
The Handler's voice roared to life. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"New plan," she said, packing up her weapon. "I'm going deeper."
"Explain."
"I'm going to make him fall in love with me."
Silence.
Then: "Are you insane?"
"No," Selene said, a strange flicker of emotion threading her voice. "I'm improvising."
She clicked off the line.
And vanished into the night.
Excellent! Here's Part B of Chapter One of Velvet Blade, continuing directly from Part A. This section dives into Selene's deeper infiltration, the emotional stakes beginning to shift, and the first meaningful spark of romance between Selene and Voss.
---
Paris, Four Days Later
SeraphTech Global Summit – Grand Palais
A violin quartet played in the grand hall, their music threading through gold-paneled walls and mirrored chandeliers. Power gathered here like storm clouds—diplomats, monarchs, cyber moguls, and military leaders all dressed in opulence and ambition. It was a showcase of the future... and a feast for anyone trained to kill it.
Selene Vale walked among them as a ghost in silk.
Her new identity: Sophia Renard, private investor and consultant on "international security assets."
Flawless forged documents.
Fresh cover story.
New mission.
Kill Alexander Voss—up close and personal.
She would not miss again.
Not with Orchid's Fang watching.
Not with her pride on the line.
But as she entered the chamber, flanked by French security, she saw him.
Alexander Voss.
Alone for a breathless second.
Reading a dossier.
And then—his eyes lifted.
And he saw her.
Recognition struck like lightning.
His mouth curved. Not surprised. Not entirely.
"You're not French," he said, glass of champagne in hand. "And you're not Sophia."
She arched an eyebrow, heart spiking. "Then who do you think I am?"
"Trouble," he said smoothly, stepping closer. "The beautiful kind."
Selene laughed—because she had to. "You flatter all your guests like this?"
"Only the ones who vanish before breakfast."
"And you follow them?"
"Only across continents."
It was too bold. Too dangerous. And it made her skin spark.
---
Later, under the moonlit dome of the Palais' terrace, they stood apart from the crowd. She in a backless sapphire gown, he in a black tuxedo with the collar loosened, the playboy charm stripped away.
"I should ask what you're really doing here," he said, looking out over the Seine. "But I think I'd rather not know."
She tilted her head. "That's not very strategic of you."
"I've spent years building strategy," he said. "Tonight, I want honesty."
Selene looked away.
If he only knew.
If he knew how many people she had silenced. How much blood she had walked through. How the real "Sophia Renard" was likely in a ditch somewhere in Morocco because of her.
He touched her hand.
She froze.
"Your eyes," he said quietly. "They look like you've seen the end of the world."
She swallowed. "Maybe I have."
"I hope you survived it."
Something inside her cracked.
Something that had held strong for years.
He leaned in. His voice was a whisper, barely brushing her cheek.
"Are you going to disappear again?"
Her lips parted.
She should lie.
She should retreat.
But for some reason, she said:
"Not tonight."
---
They didn't sleep together that night. Not in body.
But something else happened.
Something Selene hadn't expected.
She went back to her suite with her heartbeat echoing in her ears. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling and wondered if Orchid's Fang had seen the way her fingers had lingered in his.
She could still kill him.
She would.
But she'd never done it like this before.
Not with a man who made her forget how to breathe.