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“This was blackmail,” Isobel muttered, swirling her wine as the bass of a party playlist reverberated softly through the walls of her otherwise immaculate townhouse.
“You agreed,” Maggie said from the kitchen, adjusting the gold cuffs on her Cleopatra costume. “Eventually.”
“I was cornered. Emotionally manipulated. Tiffany bribed me with her grandmother’s bourbon balls.”
“Which were incredible,” Nina added, passing by dressed as Bonnie Parker, red lipstick perfect. “Just admit you love it.”
Isobel took another sip of wine and glared. “I love none of you.”
Across the room, Scola (dressed as a cowboy, because of course he was) tipped his hat at her, misinterpreting the glare. She ignored him.
Jubal arrived fashionably late, because it took that long to get into the Batman suit he’d panic-ordered from a warehouse in Queens.
He caught sight of Isobel across the room — sleek in her Catwoman ensemble, fitted like a second skin, a twist of red lipstick on her smile as she talked with OA.
He adjusted his cowl and tried not to stare too obviously.
He failed.
She caught him, naturally. Raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
He made his way over slowly, letting the music and conversation blend into the kind of party haze where secrets could almost stay secret.
“You clean up well,” she murmured, eyeing the cape. “Dark. Brooding. Overly dramatic. Very on-brand.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Kyle.”
“Don’t get cocky. You have fake abs.”
“They’re very committed fake abs,” he said, stepping in close enough for her to feel the heat of him. “Also, this suit zips at the back. Which is… problematic.”
“Maybe you’ll find someone willing to help you out of it.”
“Maybe I already have.”
They managed to disappear for ten minutes — into her office, which she’d tried to declare off-limits with a passive-aggressive post-it note that read “No Agents Beyond This Point (Looking At You, OA).”
Inside, it was quiet. Dim light. Old hardwood beneath his boots. Her scent — sandalwood, wine, and something warm — in the air.
He closed the door behind them.
“You sure about this?” he asked, even as he reached for her.
“I’m hosting a party for federal agents in my house,” she replied, unzipping his cowl with practiced fingers. “I’ve already made one bad decision tonight.”
He kissed her before she could say more — firm, deep, something he’d been craving since she’d sent him a photo of her costume two nights ago with the text: Don’t be late.
His hands found her waist. Hers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until she was against the desk, the small of her back pressed into cool wood.
“You’re not very heroic,” she whispered, gasping between kisses.
“I’m vengeance, not virtue,” he replied, lips dragging down her neck.
She arched, let out the quietest sound, and whispered, “We’ve got five minutes before someone starts yelling about the smoke machine.”
“Then I’ll make it count.”
Three minutes and a very rumpled Catwoman later, the door creaked open.
“Elise—” Isobel gasped, straightening so fast she nearly elbowed Jubal in the jaw.
Elise blinked, holding a half-empty bottle of wine and a raised eyebrow. She looked from Isobel’s lipstick-smeared mouth to Jubal’s askew cape to the way they were not making eye contact.
“Well,” she said, slowly. “I was looking for more glasses.”
Neither of them spoke.
“Also,” Elise added, tapping her chin, “Batman and Catwoman. That’s not even subtle.”
“Elise,” Isobel said, deadly calm. “I swear to God—”
“I’m saying nothing,” she said, backing out with exaggerated caution. “Truly. I support love. Justice. Hot people sneaking around in secret. But also — I expect an invite to the wedding. Or at least a bonus cupcake.”
She disappeared.
Jubal turned to Isobel. “We’re doomed.”
“Not necessarily,” she said, smoothing her hair. “We just need to get through the rest of the night without anyone else noticing.”
They opened the door to see Ian, Kelly, and Hobbs staring at them from the hallway like a Greek chorus smirking gasses raised in toast.
“...Or not.”