“She isn’t just collecting,” Renzo said, leaning back as Cestian rain lashed the windowpanes of his flat. “She’s performing.”
“Then we’ll give her a stage she won’t forget,” Juna said, scanning the schematics spread across his coffee table. “How do we breach the production hub? Security will be impenetrable tomorrow.”
Renzo tapped a stylus against a ventilation duct diagram. “The center’s hospitality is handled exclusively by ‘Haute Plate.’ Snobbish management, ironclad agreements. Nobody approaches the production wings without an apron.” A faint grin surfaced. “Unless we arrive as Haute Plate.”
“We’re going to be caterers?” Juna raised a brow. The idea was absurd, yet it held a certain perverse appeal. The thought of serving canapés while plotting Tavia’s downfall was almost poetic.
“Not just caterers,” Renzo clarified, a glint in his eyes. “The most insufferably arrogant, demanding, and utterly indispensable caterers they’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter.”
The next morning, an opulent, oversized delivery truck, emblazoned with a hastily acquired ‘Haute Plate’ logo, pulled up to the service entrance of the Cestia Broadcast Tower. Juna, now masquerading as “Madame Zylos,” a culinary eccentric with a severe bob and an even more severe expression, swept into the loading dock. Renzo, posing as her long-suffering assistant, “Monsieur Luc,” trailed behind, pushing a cart laden with delicate tartlets concealing their tap devices.
“You there!” Juna’s voice, usually soft as Inesca, now carried a sharp, imperious edge. She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at a harried-looking event coordinator, a man with a perpetually damp forehead named Mr. Vesper. “Is this the proper access point for the ‘Celestial Ambrosia’ display? Because if my Truffle-Infused Quail Egg Tartlets are jostled by your common delivery personnel, I assure you, the entire event will be canceled. And your career along with it.”
Mr. Vesper blanched. “Right this way. The ‘Celestial Ambrosia’ goes straight to the green room. Your staging post is near the transmission bays.”
They navigated a maze of bustling corridors, Juna’s theatrical outrage clearing a path through the organized chaos. She critiqued the lighting, the temperature, the very air quality. “This humidity is a disservice to my Éclairs de Lune!” she declared, wafting a hand dramatically. Renzo, meanwhile, used every momentary distraction to scan for surveillance, making mental notes of camera blind spots.
They reached the auditorium, alive with crew members and early donors. A woman with a headset, Ms. Greda, rushed toward them with tight courtesy. “Madame Zylos, we were just discussing the placement of the vegan platters.”
Juna leveled her a withering gaze. “Vegan options? My dear, Haute Plate caters to palates, not dietary fads. If your guests wish to partake in… grass, they may do so after appreciating the *art* of proper cuisine.” She gestured grandly at a tray of what looked like miniature, edible glass sculptures. “These, Ms. Greda, are not mere snacks. They are existential meditations on the fleeting beauty of flavor.”
Ms. Greda frowned. “Our agreement specifically stipulated a full vegan service for VIPs—”
“The terms also state that Haute Plate dictates culinary presentation,” Juna cut in smoothly. “If that displeases you, hire someone else. Tell me, Ms. Greda, what is this booking worth to your venue?”
Ms. Greda stiffened. “A rather substantial sum, why?”
Juna reached into her bag, not for a phone, but for a slim, silver-plated data pad. A few rapid taps and a quiet hum filled the air. “Consider it nullified.” Her thumb pressed down, authorizing a transfer. “As of this moment, Haute Plate belongs to the Ruz Corporation. You are all now under my payroll. And the previous arrangement? Moot. Now, about access to the transmission deck for my delicate ingredients…”
Silence rippled through the floor, followed by hurried murmurs among the technicians. A wire transfer had shifted the company’s ownership in seconds, leaving Greda frozen in compliance.
“Monsieur Luc,” Juna commanded, turning to Renzo, “the cheeses for the technical crew require a stable atmosphere, adjacent to the core junction boxes.”
With stiff deference, Ms. Greda escorted them straight to the double doors stenciled ‘TRANSMISSION SUITE – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.’
Two floors below, Pia Corbes stepped into the marble-lined restroom. Tavia Lox stood before the vanity in a sapphire gown, applying pressed powder with measured, delicate strokes.
“Tavia,” Pia began, her voice carefully pitched to sound concerned. “I heard the most awful rumor. People are saying… that your pregnancy isn’t real.”
Tavia froze, her hand hovering over a compact. Her eyes, usually so calculating, flashed with genuine alarm before she quickly composed herself. “Pia, darling, how could you even suggest such a cruel thing? My precious little one is due in just weeks.” She patted her subtly rounded stomach, a gesture that suddenly seemed less maternal and more performative.
Pia pressed on, remembering Juna’s exact instructions. “It’s just… you haven’t shown much, and with all the stress, and Brencis being so… *preoccupied*. I worry for you. Perhaps a visit to Dr. Elson? He’s the best for high-risk pregnancies.”
Tavia’s composure shattered. Her voice dropped, a venomous hiss. “Elson? Are you insane? He’d ruin everything! That old fool would expose it in a second.” She caught herself, too late, a frantic look in her eyes. “I mean, he’s simply too busy. I have my own doctors, thank you.”
Pia, feigning concern, offered Tavia a tissue. Her other hand, hidden by the silk of her dress, discreetly held Juna’s modified wrist-comm, its tiny lens capturing every subtle twitch, every damning word. The recording light pulsed an almost imperceptible crimson. Tavia, rattled, continued to mutter about the difficulties of maintaining a ‘delicate condition’ under pressure, unwittingly digging her own grave.
Inside the transmission closet, Juna and Renzo worked in quiet sync behind the main racks. Renzo stripped insulation from an auxiliary fiber line, his hands steady, while Juna positioned ceramic platters along the adjacent console to block the view from the hallway.
“Almost there,” Renzo murmured, his breath warm against Juna’s ear as he leaned in, plugging in the last cable. “We’ll have a clean intercept of the main feed. Our ‘special segment’ will replace whatever drivel they have planned at the ten-minute mark.”
Juna tracked the amber lights blinking along the patch panel. For a second, meeting Renzo’s steady gaze, the cold alienation of Inesca’s skin loosened its grip, giving way to sharp clarity.
Behind her, a metallic slide clicked back. A cold steel cylinder pressed firmly between her shoulder blades. She stopped breathing.
“Madame Zylos, I presume,” a low voice rumbled, devoid of humor. “Brencis sends his regards.”
Juna slowly turned her head, her gaze dropping. Brencis’s chief of security, a broad man named Vorlag, stood framed in the doorway, leveling a fitted suppressor straight at her. The silence in the closet was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the servers.