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As Kate's personal assistant, I, Tallulah, always attended glamorous events—mingling with diplomats, military personnel, and political elite.
Just the other week, while Kate was on a call with Geneva, she was invited to a soirée scheduled for Saturday evening. She agreed to attend but insisted that I accompany her. Fortunately, they agreed.
Kate told me to take the day off so we could both prepare and meet at UNIT HQ by 7 p.m.
I spent most of the day agonizing over what to wear. Eventually, I settled on a vintage Alexander McQueen off-the-shoulder black evening gown—classic and commanding. I paired it with stiletto heels and an emerald-and-diamond teardrop necklace, earrings, and bracelet—so opulent they could’ve belonged to a queen. My hair was swept up in an elegant French twist, with a few wispy strands framing my face. My makeup was subtle yet precise, giving me a soft glow that enhanced my sharper features.
I arrived at the Tower at 6:45—fifteen minutes early. Comfortable in Kate’s chair, I sipped her bourbon, savoring the warmth as my eyes drifted to the door. She entered just then, stealing the breath from my lungs. Kate stood poised in a sleek navy pantsuit, her hair curled into tight ringlets, makeup effortlessly natural.
I let out a soft wolf whistle. “Well, don’t you look gorgeous, Commander. Love the curls... though no dress?”
“I’m not making first contact in a dress. I like having pockets,” she smirked, pouring herself a glass of bourbon.
I stood up, offering her seat back. Her eyes scanned me with amused appreciation. “Tallulah, you look exquisite. That gown… and the jewels—where on Earth did you get them?”
I blushed. “Thank you. It’s a vintage McQueen—gifted to me by my former employer. They were close to McQueen in his final years. I wore it once for a funeral, and she insisted I keep it. As for the jewellery, it’s on loan—from the Elizabeth Taylor exhibition at Sotheby’s. The curator owed me a favor.”
Kate arched a brow. “Links to McQueen and Taylor? Working for me must seem painfully dull.”
I chuckled. “On the contrary, this is far more exciting than working with influencers. That job was just taking photos of them in overpriced clothes and fetching endless coffee. Think The Devil Wears Prada—I was Andy.”
Draining my glass, I added with a grin, “So, Commander-in-Chief, who exactly am I spying on tonight?”
“How perceptive of you, Tallulah.”
“Well, it is my job—thinking like you to make your job a little easier. You don’t need me tonight, but you were adamant I attend.”
“His name is Lorenzo Rizzo. Italian diplomat. Rich, powerful, charming—almost too perfect. Rose to prominence overnight. No scandals, no dirt, no skeletons in the closet. He’s suddenly the front-runner to be Italy’s next president. And he’ll be here tonight, alongside the current one. Something’s off. I want you to find out what.”
“So… you want me to flirt my way into discovering this man's secrets?”
“Precisely. If I wanted a DNA breakdown, I’d call Osgood. But for this? I need you. You have charm, instincts, and an uncanny ability to tell when someone’s hiding something. You can disarm even the most careful liar with just your words.”
I sighed dramatically. “Definitely above my pay grade, but… alright. Let’s see what Mr. Rizzo looks like.”
Kate handed me a dossier. On the cover: Lorenzo Rizzo. Handsome, mid-fifties. Jet-black hair with silver at the temples, chiseled jaw, sculpted physique, olive skin, a Roman nose, and intense hazel eyes. Around 5'10".
I nodded, unimpressed but not unintrigued. “Not bad looking.”
Kate chuckled, setting down her drink. “No. I suppose not. Come on—we’d better get moving.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Call me Kate tonight. We don’t want to raise suspicion.”
I hummed in agreement, grabbing my clutch as we left the office together.
The event was hosted in the grand hall of Hampton Court Palace—an opulent affair filled with polished diplomats and hushed political gossip. In the car, Kate and I agreed to split up once inside. It would double our chances of digging up intel.
I spotted Rizzo almost immediately—charming the Italian president with smooth words and tighter smiles. Our eyes met. A subtle exchange. He watched me, and I watched him.
After half an hour of coy glances, I decided to make my move. I floated over to the bar where he stood.
“Could I get an old-fashioned?” I asked the bartender. “Just a pinch of sugar—I’m sweet enough.”
The bartender smiled. “Of course, madam.”
“You drink such a grown-up cocktail for someone so young,” a smooth Italian voice teased.
I turned slightly, smiling. “Perhaps I’m older at heart than my age suggests. I’m Tallulah.” I extended my hand.
He took it gently, raising it to his lips. “Lorenzo.”
“A pleasure,” I replied, brushing a blush onto my cheeks.
“I noticed you the moment you entered,” he said, voice low. “And I believe you noticed me too.”
“How could I not? You’re the most attractive man I’ve seen tonight.” I fluttered my lashes deliberately.
The bartender set the drink down. “That’ll be £15, madam.”
“Thank you—”
“No, allow me,” Lorenzo interjected, tapping his card.
My eyes met his, amused. “Thank you, Lorenzo.”
“My pleasure. Perhaps you could repay me… with a walk?”
I picked up the drink, sipping slowly. “I’d be delighted.”
He offered his arm, and I took it. As we strolled into the gardens, Kate’s gaze followed us, her expression unreadable.
We strolled through the palace’s famous Haunted Gallery—a long, dimly lit corridor where portraits of kings and queens stared down from the high stone walls, their oil-painted eyes following every move.
“This hallway is said to be haunted,” I whispered, stepping just slightly closer to Lorenzo. “They say Catherine Howard’s ghost still screams here every night.”
He glanced at the portraits, a curious flicker in his eyes. “Ghosts are... irrational.” His voice was calm, flat. “Energy cannot manifest without a source.”
I raised a brow. “Oh? Are you a man of science, then?”
“I am a man of logic,” he replied smoothly. “Superstition is merely a byproduct of unquantifiable fear.”
I chuckled, brushing my hand along one of the gilded frames. “I don’t know, Lorenzo. Even logic has its limits when you’re alone in a dark palace and you hear footsteps behind you.” I looked up at him, smiling playfully. “Would you protect me?”
He turned to face me, and for a second too long, he simply stared—calculating, not enchanted.
“Of course. I would eliminate any threat to your safety.”
I blinked, thrown off. “Well... that's very... robotic of you.”
He smiled, but it was half a second too late—like the command had only just kicked in.
Something in my gut twisted.
His gaze shifted back to the portraits. “This one,” he said, gesturing toward a regal woman in a crimson gown, “is Anne Boleyn. She was Henry VIII’s third wife. Executed for adultery.”
“Second wife,” I corrected automatically. “And she was accused of treason and witchcraft, though most historians agree it was all fabricated.”
He turned his head slowly to me, lips parting—but said nothing.
I tilted my head. “You alright?”
“Of course,” he said, a bit too quickly. “Minor error in... recall. Thank you for the correction.”
I smiled again, more guarded this time.
“You know,” I said softly, “most people try to impress me with charm, not Wikipedia-level trivia.”
A flicker of confusion crossed his face—subtle, but noticeable. Like a machine trying to parse a joke it hadn’t been programmed for.
And suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
The lighting flickered—an old hallway quirk—but in that moment, Lorenzo’s pupils dilated sharply, unnaturally. Almost... mechanically.
But then he was smiling again, offering me his arm like nothing had happened.
“Shall we take some air?” he asked.
“Let’s,” I replied, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow. My smile never faltered. But inside, every sense was on high alert.
Laughter echoed between the hedges.
“You did not put hair dye in your teacher’s shampoo!” Lorenzo gasped.
I grinned. “Cross my heart. Her platinum blonde turned fuchsia. She had to spend our whole Italy trip with hot-pink hair.”
“You’re a wild woman, Tallulah.”
“I have my moments. Especially at work. We’ve got an ongoing prank war.”
“And what exactly do you do at UNIT?”
I paused.
I hadn’t mentioned UNIT.
I recovered quickly, brushing lint from his jacket. My smile didn’t falter, but inside, alarms were screaming. His eyes, so perfect—too perfect—didn’t reflect the moonlight like real ones. No sparkle. No soul.
“Hmm, and what about your childhood?” I asked, redirecting. “You’ve asked so much about me…”
“I grew up in Rome, raised by two parents. Always wanted to help people through politics. Nothing interesting, really,” he said, but his tone felt… off. Rehearsed. “But back to UNIT—your organization offers military assets with global potential. Italy could benefit. What is your role at the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce?”
I stopped walking.
“Is that so?” I said sweetly.
In one swift move, I slipped my hand into his pocket and palmed his wallet, hiding it in my clutch without a trace. Then, with a single hard shove, I pushed him into the nearby fountain.
Sparks exploded.
Electricity cracked in the air.
Lorenzo—robotic Lorenzo—twitched violently, circuits exposed, face contorting in glitching horror.
I stepped back calmly, eyes narrowed.
“Just an assistant,” I said, turning on my heel and heading back inside.
The orchestra played softly as I re-entered the hall. The Second Waltz floated through the air, weaving magic. I scanned the room, spotting Kate near the dance floor in conversation with the Italian president.
I approached, clearing my throat.
“Mi scusi, signore, le dispiace? Mi piacerebbe molto ballare con questa bellissima signora.”
The president grinned. “No, per favore. Vai avanti.”
I offered Kate my hand. “Care to dance, my lady?”
She smiled. “I would love to.” Taking my hand, we glided onto the dance floor.
I tried to take the lead, but she leaned in, whispering, “Remember who’s boss, Miss Montgomery.”
We danced in sync, a practiced elegance in every step. Our eyes locked often. I felt safe in her arms—dangerously safe. I tried to shake it. We were here for a mission.
“You dance well,” I murmured.
“My father taught me. And you?”
“My best friend’s father. Said I’d never know when it might come in handy.”
A spin, a catch, a breathless beat.
“And speaking of unexpected,” I whispered, “Rizzo was a robot.”
Kate raised an eyebrow.
“I suspected it in the Haunted Gallery. He stared too long at the portraits—scanning them. Tried to impress me with incorrect facts. Then in the garden, he mentioned UNIT, even though I never said I worked there. And his eyes—real eyes sparkle. His didn’t. No tear film, no light reflection—just... glass. That was the final straw. I slipped his wallet and shoved him into the fountain. He short-circuited beautifully. Sparks, smoke—the whole performance.”
Kate let out a soft whistle as we turned across the floor.
“Impressive,” she murmured. “I found something out myself. The Italian president—he’s not exactly well-liked back home. Word is he knows his time in office is ending. I suspect he created Rizzo to serve as his puppet—to win the election and keep control of the government through him.”
“So… a figurehead controlled by the old regime,” I said, piecing it together. “And trying to use UNIT’s international resources to prop it all up from behind the curtain.”
“Exactly. Which means tonight, we not only uncovered a robot imposter but potentially derailed a conspiracy that could have destabilized Europe.”
I smiled, lips quirking as the music swelled.
“You know, Kate… we make a pretty good team.”
She looked at me, her expression softening. “Yes… I suppose we do.”
We danced through the next few songs, neither of us eager to break the silence or the spell. As the clock chimed midnight, we knew it was time to leave.
---
The UNIT car was gliding through London, headlights painting long streaks across the wet pavement. The city buzzed quietly outside, but in the back seat, there was only warmth, bourbon, and the lingering afterglow of a mission well-executed.
Our driver, silent and precise, didn’t say a word—trained not to. It was just Kate and me in the back, sitting close but pretending it wasn’t deliberate.
I kicked off my heels and let my head rest back, watching the city lights flicker through the tinted glass. My fingers toyed idly with the emerald bracelet still hanging on my wrist.
“You’re unusually quiet,” Kate said beside me, voice low.
“Just basking,” I replied with a soft smile. “I pushed a robot into a 400-year-old fountain, and no one stopped the music. That’s a personal win.”
She chuckled, swirling the last of her drink in the glass. “I suppose I should thank you. UNIT would’ve had a much harder time getting diplomatic clearance to dismantle the next president of Italy.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said, giving her a sideways glance. “Consider it part of my highly demanding assistant duties: spy, saboteur, occasional ballroom dancer.”
Kate raised a brow. “And you’re not even slurring. I watched you take down three bourbons.”
I gave her a smug look. “Please. I worked for a fashion influencer. You think I got through that without building a world-class alcohol tolerance?”
She laughed—a real one this time—and leaned her head back against the seat, her curls brushing my arm.
“I’ll admit, you handled tonight better than I expected,” she said.
“Is that your way of saying I impressed you?” I asked, tilting my head toward her.
“It’s my way of saying you didn’t completely drive me mad.”
“High praise from you, Commander.”
We fell into a companionable silence as the car turned onto the Westminster Bridge. The lights on the Thames shimmered like stars spilled across black silk.
After a moment, I glanced at her, voice softer. “You know, if circumstances were different…”
She looked at me, steady and unreadable. “They’re not.”
“I know,” I said with a shrug, keeping my tone light. “But I’m tipsy and charming, and we just took down an android politician. I’m allowed to wonder, aren’t I?”
Kate didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked out the window for a beat, then back to me.
“You’re walking a dangerous line, Tallulah.”
I smiled, slow and measured. “And yet you haven’t told me to stop.”
A flicker passed through her eyes—amusement, maybe something else—but then she pulled back just slightly, her voice slipping back into command.
“You’re my assistant.”
“Mm-hmm.” I gave her a sideways grin. “And you’re my boss. And we’re both off the clock. And you’re a tiny bit tipsy.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re flushed.”
She shook her head, but I caught the curve of a smile.
“I could kiss you,” I murmured, not moving an inch closer. “But I won’t.”
“You’re still walking that line.”
“And you’re still not stopping me.”
The car turned again. The silence between us felt heavier now, charged.
Then Kate leaned back, exhaled slowly, and said, “You’re infuriating.”
“And you love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
I laughed gently and let my head rest on her shoulder. We stayed like that—close, not tangled. Quiet, not cold.
Outside the city pulsed.
Inside, two tipsy women sat in the back of a black government vehicle, soaked in bourbon and adrenaline and maybe, just maybe, something beginning.
Something electric.