Adrien was still furious, but they couldn't spend any more time arguing about this. She wasn't going to budge, but he knew he was right. He hadn't been reckless; he had a plan. And plans B, C, and D if anything went wrong. "We're in my hotel room, no cameras in here," he said, switching on the lights, illuminating his room. One queen-sized bed with a nice bathroom to the right. "So what are you suggesting? That we work together?"

Isla watches him click the light on, watches the room become a stage set: a queen bed, a neat bathroom, anonymous luxury. Cameras off. He stands with his arms folded like he expects compliance. Isla’s jaw tightens. The argument has run its course; every second wasted is a second the ledger could be shifted farther out of reach.

She steps forward until the hum of the air conditioner is clear and the chain on the door ticks underfoot. Her voice is cool, clipped — not a plea, not a challenge, only business.

“Work together,” she says. “Fine—on conditions.”

She counts them off with the same precision she uses when checking a pistol.

“No unilateral shots. You pull a trigger without a call and I stop you — by force if I have to. We do this without making a scene.” She pins him with an unblinking look. “I don’t want a hotel full of diplomats and a dozen cameras suddenly remembering their phones.”

“Full exchange. Who’s your contact? What are your fallback routes? You tell me the highlights and I’ll tell you Petrov’s expected exits, who on staff can be distracted, where the ledger will move next. Information goes both ways.” Her tone is flat; there’s no trust in it, only necessity.

“Ledger first. Mirov is a node, not the endgame. If killing him jeopardizes getting the ledger or sparks a diplomatic incident, then it’s off the table until we secure what matters.”

She lets a breath out, slow. Then, quieter, deadpan: “We keep cover. If the plan requires us to be close for show, we’ll play it — nothing more. Cooperate long enough to walk out with the ledger and our identities intact, then we disappear. Double-cross me and I’ll make sure the person who sent me knows your name.”

She folds her arms, the tiniest break in her posture like the click of a bolt. The clock on the nightstand ticks; outside, rain keeps moving down the panes. Isla doesn’t smile. She’s offering a deal, not a friendship.

“Your move, Calder.”

"Woah, woah, woah," he said, now rather frustrated. "Your mission might just to get the ledger and then disappear, but mine is to kill Mirov. So if we're working together you have to help me with my mission if you want my help," he said sternly. "Also, Petrov is out of this now. Mirov isn't giving the ledger back to Petrov, he's exchanging it with the Orlov couple,"

Adrien’s words landed like a thrown gauntlet: his objective was to kill Mirov, Petrov was out of the game, and the ledger was with the Orlovs. That reshaped the map — not the rules.

Isla let the information settle, eyes steady and unreadable. Inside, her mind had already redrawn routes and windows; outwardly she kept her voice cool and businesslike.

“All right,” she said. The tone carried no invitation to petty argument. “If the Orlovs have it, the ledger is portable — which shrinks our window and raises the risk. You want Mirov dead; I want the ledger. We can get both, but not if you rush and start a public shooting.”

She stepped closer so the chain on the door would swallow her words. “Plan: intercept the Orlovs first. They won’t exchange in a crowded ballroom — they’ll move somewhere private: service corridors, lifts, a suite. I’ll tail their route and engineer a small, controlled diversion to peel their minder away. You keep Mirov under watch. We only escalate when the ledger is actually in play. No trigger until the ledger is secured.”

She recited conditions like coordinates. “Your help is conditional. Tell me what you know — who handles the Orlovs, where and when the exchange is scheduled, and your fallback routes. I don’t need your agency patch, but I need logistics. In exchange I give you Petrov’s timeline, which staff we can use as distractions, and exactly which corridor cameras come back online when.” She glanced at the clock, counting under her breath. “We have less than twenty minutes before surveillance patterns change.”

“And one hard rule,” she added, cold and uncompromising. “No public violence. If Mirov has to be removed, it happens after we secure the ledger and only in a place that can be cleared. You want him dead? Fine. But not here, not now, and not in front of diplomats.”

She watched him for a reaction, then closed with the operational next step. “You keep eyes on Mirov. I shadow the Orlovs. When the handoff begins, I create a small, controlled disturbance — nothing that will roll into cameras and arrests, just enough to draw a minder. You move into the gap, secure the ledger, then make your play on Mirov if you still intend to. If your plan requires exposing yourself earlier, we renegotiate now. If you can’t guarantee controlled action, there is no partnership.”

Her terms were an offer of utility, not surrender. Isla was still Verity on the surface, but the woman beneath the name had laid out the boundaries. Time was short; precision was everything.

“Be precise,” she said. “We don’t have the luxury of vagueness.”

Adiren thought it over, the James Calder act still plastered on the surface. "You're plan is good, but there is one problem. Mirov isn't just going to hand over the ledger willingly to anyone but the Orlovs. He is sworn to give his life up before he gives away the ledger. Mirov and the Orlovs will exchange the ledger tomorrow at 9 PM in the 4th private lounge room. No one in or out except Mirov and the Orlovs. No windows, no vents, doors lock after both sides enter. Mirov won't make an appearance until 9 PM, so our plan needs to change, because yours will not work,"

She felt the irritation like a physical thing — a tightness behind her ribs that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with setbacks. Calder’s calm had a way of grating when it brushed up against reality. No windows, no vents, locked single-entry lounge at 21:00 with Mirov willing to die before giving the ledger — of course. Of course he’d make it theatrical.

Isla ran the facts once, twice, like a surgeon testing a scalpel’s edge. The room as described was designed to be impenetrable without invited clearance. Her original diversion plan wouldn’t touch it — too many locks, too tight a seal, and too long a wait that would let other actors rearrange the board.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a short, sharp breath. “All right,” she said, every syllable controlled. “That changes everything. My idea dies on access. We can’t force a locked room without a mess, and we don’t have the manpower for a prolonged stakeout that won’t draw attention. So unless you can walk me through how you plan to shoot your way past two deadbolts and a policy of ‘no one in or out,’ we need other options.”

She listed the possibilities fast, clinical and impatient:
• “Social engineering — get credentials or a staff escort. The Orlovs won’t check someone who looks like hotel protocol.”
• “Substitution — intercept the Orlovs before they enter that room and swap the ledger during a controlled handoff.”
• “False identity — pose as the Orlov couple or their minder to be let in. Risky, but clean if we nail the cover.”
• “Delay and extraction — force the ledger out of the building after the exchange (bribe a driver, create a diversion in the transport chain).”

She folded her arms, eyes boring into him. “None of those are perfect. All of them have costs. Which one do you think we can pull off in less than twelve hours without turning the Langham into a crime scene? You said you had backup plans — spells B, C and D — now’s the time to show them. What do you suggest, Calder?”

Adiren nodded, thinking everything through. "The only one of those ideas that would work well would be to pose as the Orlov couple. They'll be off guard before they get the ledger, easy targets. We can kill them, or just trap them somewhere. But if we trap them, we have no guarantee they won't find a way out before we get the ledger," he explained. "We can study and rehearse their personalities tonight and tomorrow morning, and take their clothes once we kill them or trap them," he thought aloud. "And my plans all revolved around a shoot and run, but you need your ledger, so that changes things,"

Calder sighed. "Verity, your plan still doesn't make sense," he muttered. "And far too complicated," he muttered. "The Orlovs don't arrive until tomorrow night, so we can't study them tonight. I've spoken with them, I used to work with them, so I know how they behave. How about, this. Tonight, I will teach you how they behave, we will rehearse until tomorrow evening. Knowing them, they'll sneak off to get it on later in the night before the exchange. Thats when we catch them, knock them unconscious with chloroform, and drag them into the nearest place we can contain them in. We take their clothes, and I will pose as Nikolai Orlov, and you will pose as Aliana Orlov, my wife. They are never seen apart, and they don't have a minder or a servant with them. We resume the evening until we need to enter the room for the exchange. Mirov has never met the Orlovs so he won't notice its not actually them. We do the small talk, whatever is natural, until he gives us the ledger. Once the ledger is secure, I can kill him and off we go,"

Calder’s plan is rough, but there’s a useful kernel in it — and Isla knows useful when she sees it. She lets him finish, watches the way his jaw sets when he talks about the Orlovs, the small, professional twitch that says he’s not inventing any of this on the spot.

“Fine,” she says, folding her arms, the clipboard of her cover gone in favor of something harder. “You teach me what you know tonight. We rehearse until we can do their little domestic choreography in our sleep. I’ll watch how they move through staff, how they answer a door, the small jokes they make. We make sure we can mimic them without hesitation.”

Her voice goes colder when she mentions the practicalities. “We do this precisely because Mirov doesn’t know them. That gap is our leverage — but it’s also our risk. A half-beat wrong, a missed accent, a gesture that’s off, and suddenly we’re not the Orlovs; we’re impostors with a ledger in our hands. So rehearsal is non-negotiable.”

She lets the implication hang, then pushes into the parts Calder brushed past. “If you intend to render them unconscious, I won’t pretend that’s neat. It’s messy, it’s dangerous, and it creates medical and moral variables we don’t need. If we’re going that route, it’s last resort — and we do everything to minimize harm. No improvisation. No bravado. If you insist, you’re responsible for medical outcomes and for the diplomatic fallout if anything goes wrong.”

Isla steps closer, voice low and sharp. “We also need wardrobes and phones swapped, credible IDs, and a practiced exit. We don’t strut out with a ledger and expect no one to notice; we leave like the Orlovs — calm, bored, entitled. I’ll take the access angles and staff timing. You take mannerisms and the interpersonal cues. We rehearse tonight and again tomorrow afternoon.”

She taps the chain on the door, a dry little punctuation. “Lastly: signals. Green, amber, red — strict. Green means ledger in hand. Amber means complication; we pause. Red means abort and vanish. You agree to that, and to not turning the lounge into a shooting range, then I’ll play Aliana with you as Nikolai. You break the rules, Calder, and I’ll make sure the people I answer to know your face.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, nearly warm but not quite. “Teach me what I need to know. Don’t expect sentiment. Expect discipline. We get the ledger, we get out. Anything else is noise.”