"You look thoughtful," Charlotte murmured, turning from the mirror. She wore a navy sheath dress that wasn't merely fabric, but intent—a study in controlled duality: the cut sharp enough for Langley's marble halls, the line severe enough to flay confidence, yet beneath it, a current ran like dark water.
Reminding all who saw her that the woman standing before them had just gutted her enemies in broad daylight and walked away cleaner than snow.
"Measuring the gulf," I replied, hands steady at my tie. "This morning, you fought for your life in the ruins. Tonight, you negotiate the birth of empires with the Deputy Director of the CIA."
Our empire lingered unspoken. She claimed it first.
