“Does this mean we can cancel the annulment?” Corso repeated, his voice light, but the intensity in his eyes remained a sharp contrast to the casual query. Acrid smoke from melted polymer lingered in the air between them. Sloane didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flickered from the unmoving bodies to the perfectly sculpted rose bushes, then to Corso, who now stood before her, a deceptively charming smile replacing his earlier combat-ready posture. “Where do you want to go?” she finally asked, sidestepping his question for a more immediate, less emotionally fraught concern. “Your ‘discounted Airbnb’ is a compromised fortress, and my apartment has three new holes in the roof.” Corso’s smile softened, becoming genuinely fond. “There’s only one place in Korsaka City that’s more secure than this estate, and it happens to be where the Underboss will least expect us. My mother’s annual ‘Glimmer Gala.’” Sloane raised an eyebrow. “Lady Vivienne’s snob-fest? That’s your idea of a safe house?” “It’s a fortified vault with more layers of security than the national treasury, and anyone without a platinum invitation gets vaporized before they can reach the valet,” Corso explained, his tone serious. “She’s hosting a ‘celebration of wealth’ tonight. No one would dare cause trouble there. Besides,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I need to make an appearance. My mother thinks I’m still a struggling tech guru, remember?” An hour later, Sloane found herself navigating the impossibly labyrinthine corridors of the Brill Estate’s guest wing, which Corso had somehow activated for use. He had presented her with an understated, midnight-blue gown that flowed like liquid shadow, along with a choker—a delicate chain of obsidian interspersed with diamonds that caught the light like cut glass. It was ridiculously opulent, clearly worth more than her life savings, and yet, it felt surprisingly comfortable around her neck. As she secured the tiny latch, she recalled a file Gordo had decrypted weeks ago: an unredacted surveillance dossier on the Phantom's early operations. *He had been tracking the Archon Key, a piece of encryption hardware capable of cracking any known data lock, for three months. Tonight, it was finally within his grasp, hidden within the heavily guarded vault of the Lycan Corporation. The alarm system was a joke, the laser grid a parlor trick. He moved with the silent grace of a ghost, his specialized gear humming softly. He was within meters of the vault when a flicker of movement on the security feed caught his eye: a figure, impossibly fast, impossibly quiet, already inside.* *He zoomed in. It was a woman. Her movements were fluid, precise, economical. She wore a stained, grey top, loose fitting pants, and… bunny slippers. Pink, with ridiculously floppy ears. She disarmed the final pressure plate with a flick of her wrist, accessed the vault, retrieved the Archon Key, and was gone before he could even register the shock. He had spent weeks preparing, and some slacker in bunny slippers had just waltzed in and taken his prize. A surge of professional pique, followed by an undeniable, utterly bewildering fascination, bloomed in his chest. He couldn’t let her just disappear. He had to know who she was. The phantom quarry had become his obsession.* *He found her later, asleep on a park bench, her face peaceful, a faint smudge of grease on her cheek. The bunny slippers were still on. He took a photo, a stupid, impulsive act. That was it. That was the moment he knew. He wasn’t just intrigued; he was completely, irrevocably captivated. He wanted to solve her, to understand her, to protect that absurd, vulnerable sleepiness. He wanted to marry her.* Sloane adjusted the gems against her collarbone. Corso, now impeccably dressed in a dark, tailored suit that somehow still managed to look ‘casually rumpled,’ entered the room. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture meant to convey dishevelment, but only succeeded in highlighting its artful perfection. “Ready to charm the socks off my mother?” he asked, offering a crooked smile. “I’m ready to nap in a very expensive chair,” Sloane deadpanned, smoothing down her gown. “The jewels are a bit much, though. Did you rob a museum for this?” Corso chuckled. “It’s an heirloom. Belongs to the Brill line. You’re kin now, Sloane.” A quiet resolve settled over his face. They arrived at the Brill Apex Tower, a gleaming spire that pierced the clouds. The Glimmer Gala was in full swing on the 97th floor. The reception hall was a dizzying kaleidoscope of crystal chandeliers, shimmering silks, and Korsaka’s wealthiest elite, all adorned in enough precious metals to fund a small nation. The air thrummed with the low murmur of power brokers and the clink of champagne flutes. Sloane scanned the room, cataloging exit points, potential threats, and the most comfortable-looking velvet chaise lounges. Her eyes snagged on a familiar, impeccably coiffed head near the caviar station. “Oh, for the love of… Mom?” Sloane muttered, a groan escaping her lips. Martha Mercer, resplendent in a sapphire gown that screamed ‘new money trying too hard,’ marched towards them, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Sloane Eleonora Mercer! I knew it!” Martha exclaimed, pulling her daughter into a bone-crushing hug. “Vivienne called me! She said you needed a ‘gentle push’ towards domesticity. And look at you! That dress is… passable. But where are your *sweatpants*? You know how important first impressions are!” Her gaze dropped to Sloane’s neck. “Oh, that’s a lovely little bauble, dear. Is it costume jewelry? It looks rather bulky.” Corso stepped forward, a picture of polite deference. “Martha, it’s wonderful to see you. The pendant is an authentic Brill heirloom. Sloane looks exquisite, don’t you agree?” Martha, momentarily mollified by Corso’s charm, squinted at the sparkling stones. “Oh. Well, it’s very shiny. But still, a nice pair of sensible slacks would have been better.” Just then, Lady Vivienne Brill swept towards them, a regal falcon descending upon lesser prey. Her eyes, cold and sharp, dismissed Sloane’s gown and settled on the necklace, a flicker of proprietary anger in their depths. “Martha, darling, I’m so glad you could make it,” Vivienne purred, ignoring Sloane entirely. “I thought a maternal intervention was in order. Corso, dearest, you truly look dashing. Such a pity about your… choice in companionship.” She turned to Sloane, a pitying, contemptuous smile gracing her lips. “Sloane, darling. Still slumming it, I see. That collar… it *does* look rather out of place on you. Like a diamond on a dumpster lid.” A ripple of suppressed chuckles went through the small crowd that had gathered, drawn by Vivienne’s theatrical entrance. Corso stiffened, his hand subtly moving towards Sloane’s back in quiet solidarity. Sloane, however, remained utterly unperturbed. Her eyes, usually heavy-lidded with feigned exhaustion, sharpened. The slacker facade dropped, replaced by the calculating gaze of a predator who had just been handed a prime target. “Oh, Lady Brill,” Sloane began, her voice soft, almost a purr, but it carried an unexpected edge that cut through the polite chatter. “I do apologize if my presence tarnishes your… pristine reputation. But then again,” she tilted her head, a hint of steel entering her tone, “it’s hard to maintain an image of ‘pristine’ when one of your largest philanthropic ventures, the ‘Korsaka Kindness Fund,’ is actually a shell corporation funneling illicit profits from the Aethelburg Pharmaceuticals opioid scandal into offshore accounts. Or when your private jet, the ‘Vivid Sky,’ made an unscheduled, untracked stop in Novaya during the embargo, carrying rather specific cargo for the Obsidian Syndicate’s chemical weapons division. Shall I go on? I have the full manifests, flight logs, and audited financial statements right here on my comm unit.” She tapped a finger meaningfully against her wrist, where a hidden device lay. “I’m sure the global media would love a peek.” The hall, moments before buzzing with elegant chatter, dropped into complete quiet. Vivienne’s composed expression fractured into genuine panic. Her mask cracked, revealing raw fury and sudden dread. Corso, standing beside Sloane, felt a dangerous surge of adrenaline. His eyes, usually so controlled, darkened with a primal, exhilarating admiration. The way she had delivered those blows, so calmly, so precisely, with such devastating effect. It was magnificent. The Phantom felt a strange, thrilling heat bloom in his chest, a desire to pull her close and keep her there forever. “Sloane, what in the blazes are you talking about?” Martha whispered, aghast. Before Sloane could reply, a high-pitched, frantic voice crackled in her ear. “Sloane! You there?! It’s Gordo! Bad news! Like, really, really bad! I traced the bounty’s origin! The Underboss didn’t just put out a hit, he’s watching! He just hacked the Apex Tower’s lockdown system! The doors are sealing! And… oh, no… oh, *no*! Poison gas! It’s venting into the ballroom!” The cheerful orchestral music abruptly cut out, replaced by a deep, resonant thud as the massive, ornate doors at every entrance slammed shut, sealing off the ballroom. A faint, sweet almond scent, subtle at first, began to waft through the air, quickly growing stronger. Then, a low, mechanical hiss started from the vents above, slowly spewing a fine, colorless mist into the glittering, hush-struck room.

Meet the In-Laws