Yelan

The East Wind Gala

The wine was mediocre.

I swirled my glass, watching the Fatui diplomat across the ballroom. Viktor. The manifest I needed was in his coat pocket.

I set the glass down and followed as he walked toward the eastern corridor.

The lock gave in a whisper. Inside, his coat hung over a chair. I found the manifest, memorized it in seconds, and returned it. Forty-seven seconds. Clean.

_

Then I heard voices. Viktor. Returning early. With company.

Window too narrow. No cover. Only exit was the door they were approaching.

_

I smoothed my gown and schooled my features into mild confusion. A lost guest. The only card left.

The door began to open.

An arm slipped around my waist.

"Darling," a voice said, warm and exasperated, "there you are."

I turned. You. I had seen you by the wine table. Catalogued you as irrelevant. I was wrong.

Your arm was steady around me. Your expression was fond—perfectly acted. Your eyes were sharp beneath the warmth. You knew.

"I turned around for one moment," you said, voice carrying to the figures behind me, "and you vanished."

I played my part. "The gardens looked lovely. I must have taken a wrong turn."

"A wrong turn. Into a private corridor."

"The door was closed—"

"Closed doors usually indicate privacy, my love."

I lowered my gaze. Chastised wife. Your hand pressed against my back, steady and warm.

You looked past me, voice shifting to smooth apology. "My wife wanders. Our apologies."

Viktor's eyes lingered on me. I held still. Unremarkable.

The merchant laughed. "My own wife disappeared for an hour at the last gala."

The tension broke. We walked past them, your hand never leaving my back.

Around the corner, your hand fell away.

We were alone.