Verity's laugh sounded like music to his ears. He knew it was practiced; it was impeccable, but Adrien knew it was. None of this was real, but he was someone who hadn't heard the sound of women's laughter in an intimate setting in over a decade, and it was nice to pretend, just for a little. Not real.

He smirked, Nikolais' practiced smirk. "Mm, well, she lounges on him, relaxing into him. Doesn't worry about the business her husband is attending to," he hummed lightly. Adrien could feel her tenseness radiate off her, and the proximity was almost convincing, but not for Aliana. "She occasionally plays with his tie or buttons but never puts anything out of place,"

Isla eased a slow breath through her nose, letting her shoulders loosen—not fully, never fully, but enough to imitate the boneless ease Aliana carried like perfume. She shifted her weight so her body draped against him more convincingly, the tilt of her hips deliberate, the lean of her torso relaxed but never heavy. Practiced softness. Fabricated intimacy.

Her hand moved from the single button to brush along the crisp line of his tie, fingertips ghosting over the silk without tugging. Light. Careful. Exactly as he’d said.

“Mm… like this,” she murmured, adopting Aliana’s languid cadence, her lips close enough that the words warmed the side of his throat. Her fingers circled the knot of his tie, playful but not disruptive, a flirtation that stayed precisely within the bounds of rehearsal.

She let out another soft, airy giggle—perfectly in character, but still edged with her subtle tension, a tell only someone inches away could catch.

Her voice dipped to a whisper meant just for him, not Nikolai.

“Tell me if the weight’s wrong,” she murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest second. “Or if I’m too stiff.”
A beat.
“But I’m adjusting.”

He smiled at her laugh, almost genuinely, but it was still fake, still Nikolai. He nodded, "Its okay, take your time," he whispered, the real Adrien, genuine.

After a little, when she got comfortable, as comfortable as possible. "We'll have to kiss to make this believable," he whispered. "You dont have to actually kiss me, its okay. Just take my face in your hand, press your thumb onto my lips and kiss your thumb," he explained. "Not a real kiss, but close enough to make it seem real,"

Isla blinked at the instruction, a faint crease forming between her brows. Of course, she thought, another layer of intimacy disguised as rehearsal. She kept her voice low, careful, Aliana dripping from every syllable.

“Mm… ” she murmured, letting her hand drift to his face with deliberate gentleness. Her thumb brushed his lips, light and precise, and she pressed it there as instructed, her other fingers cupping his jaw just enough to sell the gesture.

Her body remained tense beneath the performance, a subtle reminder that this was practice, not trust. But she leaned in slightly, careful to control the closeness, feeling the heat of proximity without surrendering herself entirely.

“Like this?” she whispered, voice airy, almost musical, letting the practiced flirtation linger just enough to mimic Aliana’s charm. Her eyes flicked to his briefly, searching for a cue, a tell—anything that might indicate how far she could push the act without crossing unspoken boundaries.

Then, relaxing just slightly, she added, “Good? Or do I need more… persuasion?” Her words were playful, teasing, but underneath it all, the sharp awareness of every movement and every touch never left her.

Adrien sincerely didn't want to make her uncomfortable, but they did have to sell the act. He knew it was practice, rehearsal for an important mission. He didn't know her past her fake name and her mission. But even though it was just a rehearsal, there was something about pretending that this girl was his and he was hers, that lightened the loneliness in his heart.

He smirked, purely Nikolai, the only sense of it not being Nikolai was in his eyes. "Mm," he hummed, gently nipping at her thumb playfully, still Nikolai, still pretend, still rehearsal, nothing more.

Isla’s breath stuttered—just once—when he nipped at her thumb.

It was reflexive, not fear, not panic. Just surprise.

Her fingers tensed against his jaw before she caught herself, easing her grip a fraction so it wouldn’t read as flinching to anyone who might be watching. Aliana wouldn’t recoil. Aliana would laugh.

So Isla smiled instead.

Soft. Slow. Dangerous in the way Aliana wore amusement.

She didn’t pull her hand away, but she shifted it—thumb sliding from his lips to trace the edge of his jaw as if the bite had amused her. As if it were exactly what she’d expected.

“Mmm,” she echoed lightly, letting out a breathy, indulgent laugh that sounded nothing like herself. “Careful, Nikolai. You’ll give them something to gossip about.”

She leaned in again, close enough that he could feel her breath, her voice still warm with performance but a thread tighter now, more controlled.

“Don’t ad-lib,” she murmured quietly, just for him. Not sharp. Just firm. “Unless you warn me first.”

Then Aliana resurfaced fully.

Her fingers slipped to the knot of his tie again, lazy, teasing, tilting her head as if studying him.

“But otherwise,” she added softly, eyes lifting to his, voice dipped back into flirtation, “you’re convincing.”

A beat.

Then quieter—so quiet it barely existed:

“Just… don’t forget. This is still pretend.”

And she stayed where she was, close but not leaning, composed but not cold, holding the line between the woman she was and the role she was playing with practiced precision.

He smirked, Nikolai's smirk, "Sorry, moya lyubov, you're just so gorgeous tonight," he murmured, but the apology in there was real; he made sure she could see it in his eyes.

He nodded. "Just pretend," he agreed barely audibly.

After a while, he straightened, going back to cool, collected James. "Okay, I think we're good," he said, sitting up, but not pushing her off him. She could move as she pleased. "We need to eat before we go down," he said, checking the time. It was about an hour before they had to go down to take out the Orlovs and swap clothes with them.

Isla caught the apology in his eyes before the words reached her ears.

It unsettled her more than the flirtation had.

She gave a small nod—barely perceptible—accepting it without making a scene of it. Verity Shaw returned where Aliana had been, the sultry warmth draining from her posture as cleanly as if it had been poured out.

When he shifted back into James, the change was immediate and obvious, and she was relieved for it. She slid off his lap smoothly, no hurry, no hesitation, as if it had never meant anything more than a chair.

“Good,” Isla said quietly. Practical again. Centered.

She crossed the room to grab her shoes, slipping them on as she glanced back at him.

“An hour’s enough,” she agreed. “We don’t want to look rushed. Or nervous.”

She hesitated a fraction of a second, then added, voice neutral but not unkind:

“And… thanks. For being clear.”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to.

Moving to the small table, she began sorting what food was left, dividing it quickly and efficiently.

“Eat,” she instructed lightly, without looking at him. “You go in sharper if you’re not running on caffeine and regret.”

Then, quieter, as she unwrapped something for herself:

“And James?”

She glanced up at him briefly.

“…You did fine.”

He stood once she had gotten off of him, nodding and walking over to the table, taking his share of the food, beginning to eat. He nodded, glancing up at her as he ate. "Mm, thanks," he hummed lightly. "You too," he mumbled. Once he'd finished his food, he stood pulling his uniform out of the closet, one for her too. They'd disguise as servants before taking out the Orlovs. He walked towards the bathroom. "I won't come out till you're changed," he hummed lightly, going into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Isla watched him gather the uniforms with that same quiet competence he did everything else with, her expression unreadable but attentive. When he disappeared into the bathroom and the lock clicked softly, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Finally. A moment alone.

She picked up her uniform and crossed to the edge of the bed, laying it out neatly. The fabric was stiff, utilitarian—meant to erase her, not adorn her. She worked quickly, efficiently, changing with the same precision she handled a weapon: movements economical, mind already four steps ahead.

As she dressed, she ran through the plan again in her head—entry points, timing, the Orlovs’ likely habits, exits if something fractured sideways. The rhythm of preparation steadied her far more than rehearsal ever could. This was the part she trusted. Fabric. Routes. Physics. Not eyes and smiles and borrowed intimacy.

She clipped her hair back, checked the fit in the mirror, tugged once at the sleeve to ensure nothing would snag. Satisfactory.

When she was finished, she stood near the door, posture already sinking into the unobtrusive hunch of hotel staff. Invisible. Forgettable. Exactly as intended.

“James,” she called quietly through the door, voice composed and flat with focus, “I’m ready.”