Alexia stood at Margaret’s side, the low hum of the ship filling the quiet moments between idle chatter. The sharp blare of the horn had already passed, and now the deck seemed to sway with both the sea and the mingling voices of passengers drifting by. Margaret was fussing about the neckline of her dress, muttering under her breath about how cruise designers “never made pockets for the people who actually need them,” but Alexia only half-listened.
Her attention stayed fixed on the coming minutes. Fiona Monroe.
Alexia had been waiting for this. Waiting for her chance.
She had been taught a thousand ways to slip into someone’s trust — not with blades, not with poison, but with presence, with conversation. Soft persistence, careful placement of words, questions that seemed casual until it
