Anton’s amplified voice still hummed through the copper fixtures of the grand hall, though the final notes of his grandfather's lament had dissolved minutes ago. Lenka felt the floorboards cool beneath her slippers. The air, reeking of old cedar and expensive perfume, carried a sour metallic tang, a friction that had not lingered before the broadcast. From the gallery, Pavel watched her, his own expression a complex blend of grief and suspicion. His gaze lingered on her, then flickered towards the empty stage where Anton had just made his explosive declaration. The raw pitch of his earlier disclosure, his possessive fixation on what the heiress had left behind, seemed to sharpen in the wake of Anton's broadcast accusation. Pavel was more than an artist; he was a gatekeeper, a conspirator in a truth he refused to let wither. Movement in the hallway below drew Lenka’s attention. Kirill Sokolov, his face rigid with suppressed fury, strode past, his gaze darting toward the observation pinholes drilled into the wainscoting. An aide with hair scraped flat against her temples trailed him, whispering frantically into a radio collar. The set's careful choreography was coming undone. Minutes later, a production assistant approached Lenka, her smile a brittle thing. “Miss, Mr. Rostov requests your presence for a post-concert stroll through the promenade gardens. A moment of quiet reflection, he suggested.” Her tone rang shrill, straining to paper over the crack in the schedule. Lenka nodded, lips parting slightly. Misha treated every rupture as open ground. The promenade gardens were a labyrinth of manicured hedges and softly glowing lanterns, designed for intimate conversations under the watchful glow of discreet illuminations. Tonight, gravel paths stretched out empty under the hedges. Lenka found Misha leaning against a marble balustrade overlooking a moon-dappled pond, his usual flamboyant attire replaced by a simple dark tunic that somehow made him seem less the playful idol, more the perceptive observer. He turned as she approached, his gaze sharp and direct. “Anton’s an idiot,” he murmured, stripping the singsong cadence from his tone. “A useful idiot, perhaps, but reckless. He bought straight into the curse legend while pointing an inconvenient finger at the founding family. The viewership will spike, but the cleanup behind the scenes will be brutal.” “Cleanup for the broadcast, or for the dynasty?” Lenka asked, stepping up to the stone rail. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Misha gave a dry rasp. “Both. The studio cares only for audience metrics. The board, however, will protect its patents. Especially when those patents rest on an ugly premise.” He stared into the dark pond. “I needed you away from the gallery. Kirill is locking down the soundboards. We have five minutes of blind spots.” Lenka waited, her expression neutral. The posture of the grinning performer fell away, leaving the calculated stillness Oksana had warned her to fear. “The curse is a smokescreen,” Misha murmured. “The Mnemosyne neuro-tech never stopped at therapeutic recall. It was designed to rewrite neural pathways. To erase them.” He met her eyes without blinking. “The laboratory expanded past medicine into systematic re-education, civic discipline, and erasing inconvenient witnesses.” He pushed off the balustrade, turning to face her fully. “I’m not just an idol, Lenka. The pop star routine is an operational cover. I run field inquiries for the Krovos Oversight Committee. We have tracked this syndicate for three years, logging illegal clinical trials and staged accidents disguised as dynastic misfortune.” Lenka pressed her fingertips against the cold balustrade. The puzzle snapped shut: the missing heirs, the sudden wealth, the daughter who had run. “The daughter,” Lenka said, keeping her tone level. “She was leaking the dossiers.” Misha gave a tight nod. “Precisely. She discovered the extent of their depravity. She tried to leak information. That data key you’re looking for? It contains irrefutable evidence. Blueprints, logs, patient files, coded communications. The Committee has been tracking her activity for months, but she went dark. Her disappearance wasn’t an accident or a curse. It was an inside job, designed to make her vanish and prevent the data from ever seeing the light of day. They thought they succeeded.” He stopped, studying the slant of her cheekbones. “Until you walked onto the soundstage.” He stepped closer, close enough that she smelled cedar smoke and mint on his jacket. “The drive she hid holds the decryption keys. It breaks their entire network wide open. You are not just another contestant here. You are leverage.” He touched two fingers to the hinge of her jaw, skin warm against her neck. “I came here hunting for her files. I found you instead, and you know how to hold a secret under pressure.” He did not blink. Between them, the garden stood dead quiet, suspended under the hidden microphones. He tilted her chin upward, his mouth pressing hard and deliberate against hers. His fingers tightened on her coat collar, pulling her an inch forward against the balustrade. Then, a blinding flash. A sharp, almost painful burst of light that ripped through the intimate tableau, followed by the distinct click of a shutter. Lenka pulled back sharply, Misha’s hand dropping from her face. Standing a few yards away, her phone held aloft, was Oksana Belova, her face illuminated by the screen’s glow. Her eyes, usually calculating, now held a bitter, almost wounded glint. “I thought we were allies,” Oksana said, her voice cutting through the sudden quiet of the garden, flat and devoid of emotion. “But the network pays well for exclusivity.”

The Traitor's Kiss