The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, three days after the press event.
Not to Lucien's penthouse, not forwarded through Cassian. To my apartment. Hand-delivered, cream envelope, no stamp, the kind of delivery that costs money specifically to demonstrate that cost is not a consideration. Inside, on card stock that probably had a name I would never be able to pronounce, was a dinner invitation in Victor Drax's handwriting.
Just me. No Lucien.
I sat with it on my kitchen counter for a long time. Then I photographed it and sent it to Lucien, who replied in under a minute: Go. Cassian will brief you.
That was all. No explanation, no reassurance, no indication of whether this was expected or alarming or something in between. Just go. I stared at the two letters on my screen and thought about
