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The wooden steering wheel of the Ford Pinto vibrates under Sabrina’s palms, the engine whining as it conquers another steep incline of the Sierra Nevada foothills. Outside, the California winter is crisp and bright, but inside the car, the air is thick with political theory.
"I’m just saying, Kelly, his treatise on the shifting dynamics of Eastern European coalition governments isn't just dry academic prose," Sabrina insists, her hands gesturing wildly off the wheel for a brief, terrifying second before snapping back. Her eyes are bright behind her aviator sunglasses, a flush of pure intellectual adrenaline coloring her cheeks. "It’s practically prophetic. Peter Wycinski understands the nuance of power better than anyone writing today. He looks at a fractured parliament and sees a chessboard."
In the passenger seat, Kelly Garrett shifts her weight, her denim jacket stiff against the vinyl seat. She lets out a long, heavy sigh, staring out at the passing pine trees with an expression that hovers somewhere between amusement and genuine exhaustion. She has been listening to this lecture since they passed Lancaster. Jill Munroe leans forward from the back seat, resting her chin on the space between the two front headrests.
A wide, mischievous grin splits her face. "Sounds like someone’s got it bad, Kel. I think Bree’s going to trade in her badge for a typewriter and a tweed jacket."
Kelly turns her head slowly, looking past Sabrina's sharp profile to lock eyes with Jill. "She’s got a crush on a sixty-year-old man!" Kelly exclaims, her voice a perfect blend of playful exasperation and utter disbelief. She puts an emphasis on the last two words, her tone clearly indicating how absurd she finds both his advanced age and, frankly, his gender. "Sixty, Jill! The man probably wears support hose and smells like pipe tobacco."
"Age is just a number, Garrett," Sabrina fires back, completely unbothered, a brilliant smile flashing across her face as she downshifts around a sharp curve. "And intellect is incredibly sexy. His lecture in Prague back in '68 fundamentally challenged the—"
"Oh, my God, enough," Kelly groans. The ramblings just won't stop.
They are a runaway train of academic worship. Sensing that words are entirely useless at this point, Kelly reaches onto the dashboard, snatches up a rolled-up copy of Cosmopolitan, and with a quick flick of her wrist, hits Sabrina squarely over the head with the magazine.
"Ouch! Hey!" Sabrina ducks, laughing, her dark hair flying.
"Keep your eyes on the road, Professor," Kelly teases, though she replaces the magazine with a decisive thud. "And give the rest of us a ten-minute recess from the Polish intelligentsia."
From the back, Jill just howls with laughter.
Hours have passed, and the winter sun has begun its slow, golden descent behind the jagged peaks of Westlake Village. The girls have long since arrived and checked into their suite at the Westlake Village Inn—an incredibly lavish, sprawling accommodation complete with heavy velvet drapes, a stone fireplace, and panoramic views of the mountains. Naturally, the bill is routed directly to Charlie’s account. Almost immediately after dropping their luggage, Kelly and Jill look at each other with identical, mischievous grins.
"The resort boutique closes in an hour, Bree," Jill announces, pulling her purse over her shoulder. "And Kel promised she'd help me pick out something bright for the heated indoor pool. You coming?"
Sabrina waves a dismissive hand, already unpacking a stack of reference books onto the writing desk. "You two go ahead. I want to unpack, stretch my legs, and actually enjoy the quiet without Kelly mocking my reading list."
"Suit yourself," Kelly teases, pausing by the door to lean in and catch Sabrina's eye with a brief, private warmth before slipping out. "Don't read too hard, Professor."
Once the door clicks shut, leaving Sabrina alone in the expansive suite, she steps out onto the private, rustic wooden porch to breathe in the crisp mountain air. She holds a half-filled glass of plum brandy, watching the mist rise off the distant lake. A soft cough sounds from the immediate left. Sabrina turns her head and nearly chokes on her breath. There, sitting on the adjacent porch, separated only by a low wooden railing and a decorative privacy screen, is a distinguished older man with a thick mane of silver hair and sharp, piercing blue eyes. He is wearing a heavy wool cardigan and holding a pipe. It is an impossible, dizzying coincidence.
"Beautiful evening, is it not?" the man says, his voice a deep, resonant baritone laced with a rich Polish accent.
"Professor Wycinski?" Sabrina breathes, her usual cool, investigator composure completely evaporating. She steps closer to the railing, her fingers tightening around her glass. "I... yes. It’s an honor. A tremendous honor. I’ve read all of your publications. Twice."
Peter Wycinski turns, a warm, paternal smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looks amused by her sudden intensity. "Ah, a student of the global theater? The twilight is too beautiful to share through a wall."
Before Sabrina can even offer a polite invitation, the distinguished academic grips the top of the low wooden railing. With a surprising, spry agility that completely defies his sixty years, he swings his legs over the barrier and steps directly onto Sabrina’s side of the deck. Sabrina blinks, a little stunned, but her excitement quickly overrides any sense of boundary intrusion. Within minutes, she is sharing a glass of her own plum brandy with her big idol right there on her balcony, completely giddy as she peppers him with rapid-fire questions about his 1974 thesis on institutional bureaucracy. She is fluent, passionate, and entirely in her element, her mind firing on all cylinders.
Peter listens intently, nodding slowly as he sips the brandy. He looks at her with a mixture of academic appreciation and gentle patronization. "Such a pretty head," Peter tells her, his tone warm but distinctly traditional, "and so full of information."
Sabrina catches the subtle condescension, but she doesn't take offense; she merely leans into her own truth, looking him dead in the eye with a sharp, knowing smile. "For you and what you're doing," she responds honestly, making it clear that her intellect isn't just an ornament—it's a tool she uses purposefully.
Peter grins, genuinely charmed by her sharpness. He backs toward the railing, preparing to head back, signaling the end of their brief encounter. "Well, it is a rare pleasure to meet a young woman of such substance." As he prepares to climb back over, he pauses, casually dropping over his shoulder, "Oh, my son is unmarried. Considering my age and yours, perhaps I should introduce him to you. He will be here any moment."
Sabrina catches her breath, a sudden surge of loyalty and affection warming her chest. She thinks of Kelly, the secret they share, and the life they are building together. "Ah, but I am taken," she says honestly, the words slipping out with a quiet, fierce pride that leaves no room for negotiation.
Peter bows his head politely, then nimbly scales the railing back to his own side. "His loss, then. Goodnight, my dear."
The moment the professor vanishes back into his own quarters, Sabrina’s giddiness returns tenfold, spreading through her veins like a fever. She rushes back inside, through the empty suite, and tears down the hallway to the resort’s heated indoor-outdoor pool area, knowing exactly where her friends would head after their shopping trip. The air inside the pool enclosure is warm and humid, smelling of chlorine and tropical ambient heat. There, lounging on a chaise longue, is Kelly. She is modeling the fruit of their shopping excursion: a brand-new, incredibly daring, rainbow-colored string bikini, striking a dramatic pose for Jill, who is sitting nearby in a terrycloth robe, clapping and cheering.
"Look at this, Jill! Total paradise wear," Kelly laughs, tossing her hair back, completely radiating confidence.
Before Kelly can spin around to show off the back, Sabrina winds through the deck chairs and swoops in. Her heart is pounding, a sudden spike of fierce possessiveness hitting her at the sight of Kelly exposing so much skin in a public resort space. Just because Sabrina has an intellectual man-crush doesn't mean she is about to let the rest of the world—or even just Jill—bask in Kelly's jaw-dropping beauty without boundaries.
"Okay, okay, fashion show's over," Sabrina says quickly, stepping into Kelly’s space. She grabs Kelly’s hand firmly, tugging her a fraction closer, effectively breaking her pose and pulling her away from the center of the patio.
"Hey!" Kelly exclaims, stumbling slightly, though a soft smile immediately tugs at her lips at the sudden touch. "Watch the suit, Bree. We just bought it."
With a bright, unmistakable twinkle in her eyes, Sabrina looks between the relaxing Jill and the very annoyed Kelly, practically bursting to share her news. "You are not going to believe what just happened while you two were at the shop," Sabrina says, her voice a breathless stage whisper.
Jill sits up, instantly intrigued. "Did you find a bookstore in the lobby?"
"Better," Sabrina beams.
She reaches behind her back, revealing a single, pristine white flower she had plucked from a vase near the porch walkway right after the professor left. With a soft, romantic flourish, she hands Kelly the flower. The gesture works instantly. The sharp, annoyed scowl on Kelly’s face softens. Her amber eyes widen slightly, and a tender, quiet warmth washes over her features as she accepts the blossom, her fingers brushing Sabrina's. For a second, the frustration melts away.
"I just had drinks with Peter Wycinski," Sabrina gushes, completely missing the immediate shift in the room's atmosphere. "He is staying right next door! He is absolutely brilliant, girls. He even offered to set me up with his son before I told him I was off the market. He literally climbed right over the railing, standing right there on the terrace, practically in our room!"
The tender look on Kelly’s face vanishes in a heartbeat. The frown reappears, intensifying so rapidly it darkens her whole expression. Her jaw sets, and her grip on the flower stem tightens until the knuckles of her elegant hand turn pale.
"Our room?" Kelly repeats, her voice dropping an octave, completely dropping the playful facade.
She places a heavy, deliberate, and deeply loaded emphasis on the word our, her eyes locking onto Sabrina’s with a fierce, burning intensity. It's a look teeming with their private reality—the two years of hidden romance, the secret shared nights, the sacred sanctuary of their relationship that Bosley and the rest of the world aren't allowed to see. The thought of this sixty-year-old stranger physically climbing over a barrier into their personal, intimate space, let alone playing matchmaker on their private balcony, makes Kelly’s blood run hot. She clearly does not approve.
"It was just the porch, Kel," Sabrina says softly, her voice dropping as she catches the warning flare in her girlfriend's eyes, realizing she might have pushed the enthusiasm a bit too far.
Jill eyes them both, sensing the sudden spike in territorial tension, and wisely sips her lemonade without a word. The tension is shattered literally moments later. Through the large glass windows of the pool enclosure, Sabrina's eyes catch movement outside. Down the manicured, grassy path winding beyond the resort's ornamental iron gates, a small group comes into view. Walking at the center of the delegation is Professor Wycinski, surrounded by several stern-faced servicemen in uniform and a handful of sharp, unblinking men in dark, tailored suits.
"Look, there he is!" Sabrina says, her excitement flaring up again as she forgets the room's tension for a split second. Wanting to show Kelly and Jill that she isn't exaggerating his presence, she steps toward the perimeter of the pool deck and raises a hand, waving enthusiastically. "Professor! Professor Wycinski!"
Down on the path, Peter Wycinski stops. He turns his silver head toward the pool enclosure. His piercing blue eyes lock directly onto Sabrina, but there is no warmth of a shared drink, no crinkle of recognition around his eyes. He merely stares straight through her with a cold, utterly blank expression, looking at her like she is a complete stranger.
Sabrina’s hand drops slightly, her smile faltering. "What..."
Before she can process the stare, the men in the suits flank the professor tightly, their hands gripping his arms with unyielding precision, swiftly pulling him away and guiding him down the path toward a waiting sedan.
"Hey! Wait!" Driven by pure instinct and a sudden spike of alarm, Sabrina bolts past the lounge chairs and bursts through the pool doors, running onto the grass. Kelly and Jill are on their feet instantly, Kelly dropping the white flower onto the chaise longue as they rush out behind her. "Professor!" Sabrina calls out, picking up her pace as she nears the iron gates.
Suddenly, a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit cuts across the lawn, intersecting her path with aggressive speed. He plants himself firmly between Sabrina and the retreating delegation, his hand coming up to flatly block her advance.
"Hold it right there, ma'am. Step back," the man commands, his voice like iron. His dark sunglasses reflect the winter twilight, completely hiding his eyes.
"Let me through, that man knows me!" Sabrina insists, trying to peer over his shoulder as the sedan doors slam shut in the distance. "I just spoke with him on his porch not ten minutes ago!"
The man doesn't budge an inch, his posture immovably rigid as the vehicle's engine roars to life. He reaches into his breast pocket, flips open a leather wallet to briefly flash a gold badge, and fixes Sabrina with a chillingly professional glare. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is a matter of national security, and I suggest you turn around and return to the pool area immediately."
Sabrina steps back, breathing heavily, her analytical mind instantly racing to connect the dots. The sheer impossibility of the situation hangs heavily in the crisp air. Behind her, Kelly and Jill close the distance, Kelly immediately stepping up to Sabrina's side and placing a protective, grounding hand on her arm, her eyes locked hard on the agent.
Shortly after the agent leaves them with a final, curt warning, the girls retreat to the privacy of their suite. The lingering irritation about the crush and the porch intrusion has completely evaporated, replaced instantly by the cold, sharp focus of three elite investigators. Kelly, now quickly changed into a cozy oversized sweater and jeans, paces the hardwood floor of the sitting room. Jill sits on the edge of the sofa, a notepad resting in her lap, tapping a pen against her chin.
"Maybe he just had a lot on his mind, Bree," Jill suggests gently, trying to play devil's advocate for the sake of the theory. "He's an older guy, under heavy federal escort, maybe he was ordered not to engage with anyone?"
"No," Sabrina says firmly, her brow furrowed in deep thought as she sits at the small wooden desk. She shakes her head, her dark hair swinging with the definitive movement. She looks up, making direct, intense eye contact with Kelly across the room, seeking the one person who understands her cognitive precision better than anyone else. "There's nothing wrong with his memory," Sabrina says, her voice steady but laced with a chilling certainty. "I'm telling you, something is wrong."
Kelly stops pacing. She looks at Sabrina, reading the absolute conviction in her girlfriend's eyes. If Sabrina says a political mastermind didn't just forget a twenty-minute deep-dive into his own literature, then it isn't a lapse in judgment. It’s a red flag.
"Alright," Kelly says, stepping forward and resting a hand on the back of Sabrina’s chair, a silent gesture of total solidarity. "Then we start looking into the Professor. Because if he's playing a part, we need to find out who's holding the script."
The crisp January sunlight still floods the luxurious suite when the girls return, casting long, sharp shadows across the velvet drapes. The heavy atmosphere of the encounter on the lawn lingers, but the immediate demand of reality takes over as they begin unpacking their bags. Jill is humming a popular top-40 tune in the adjacent room, while Kelly works on hanging up her blouses, her movements sharp, efficient, and stiff with a leftover protective tension.
Sabrina stands by the writing desk, unzipping her leather travel bag, when her fingers brush against something small, metallic, and cold resting on the edge of the blotter. She picks it up. It is a heavy, silver-plated Dunhill lighter, engraved with a subtle, stylized crest. Peter must have set it down during their rapid-fire discussion on the balcony and forgotten it when he nimbly climbed back over the railing. Her mind clicks into place. During their conversation, the professor had casually mentioned a brief afternoon stop at the resort’s lunchroom.
Without a word to Kelly, Sabrina pockets the lighter, her jaw setting with quiet determination. She needs to prove she isn't crazy. She needs to prove that the man who looked right through her is the exact same man who had praised her intellect ten minutes prior. She walks briskly down the carpeted hallway to the lunchroom, a sunlit pavilion smelling of coffee and toasted rye. Standing near the entrance, looking entirely out of place among the vacationing couples, is the same broad-shouldered FBI agent, his sunglasses still firmly in place. Sabrina marches straight up to him, her posture rigid. Without breaking eye contact, she pulls the heavy silver lighter from her pocket and drops it into his open palm with a sharp, metallic clink.
"Tell Peter he left this in my suite," Sabrina says, her voice low, cool, and dripping with a pointed triumph. She places a deliberate, unyielding emphasis on the word my, letting the possessive pronoun serve as an undeniable receipt of their interaction.
The agent's posture instantly turns uptight. His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, clearly ready to initiate another aggressive, bureaucratic brush-off. But before he can speak, one of the uniformed servicemen standing just behind him reaches out. The serviceman looks at the engraved crest on the lighter, then looks up at Sabrina with a brief, knowing nod of affirmation. "I'll see that the Professor gets it, ma'am," the serviceman says quietly, pocketing the item.
The absolute vindication tastes sweet. Sabrina fixes the stiff, silent FBI agent with a brilliant, mocking smile. She tilts her head, her dark eyes flashing with pure satisfaction.
"Apology accepted," she says pointedly. She turns on her heel and strolls out before he can even think of a retort.
When Sabrina walks back through the door of the suite, Kelly doesn't ask where she’s been. She doesn't have to; she knows Sabrina's stubborn streak too well. Instead, Kelly stands by the wardrobe, already dressed in a sleek casual outfit, a soft, understanding look in her amber eyes. She can read the lingering adrenaline in the line of Sabrina’s shoulders.
"Come on," Kelly says gently, tossing her hair back. "Let's go find the barroom."
The resort’s lounge is incredibly sparse, a quiet, dimly lit room with dark wood paneling and only a handful of patrons scattering the booths. It feels worlds away from the bright drama of the pool deck. The girls find a small, secluded table tucked into a corner, far from the entrance.
When the waiter arrives, they order a round of sweet, amber-colored whiskey, the glasses catching the low glint of the amber lamps. As they sit together, Kelly does her best to steer the conversation away from national security and silver-haired academics. She talks about the drive up, about Jill’s outrageous bikini choice, about anything that will bring a smile back to Sabrina’s face. She listens intently, validating Sabrina’s brilliance without feeding into the paranoia of the afternoon. It is a masterclass in gentle distraction—Kelly is actively trying to make Sabrina forget the sting of the brush-off without stripping away an ounce of the genuine admiration Sabrina holds for the professor's work.
It is a quiet, beautiful indicator of the sheer intimacy of their two-year relationship. There is no jealousy here, no petty arguments; just a deep, fiercely protective care that knows exactly how to handle the other's brilliant, stubborn mind. The peaceful sanctuary breaks when a shadow falls over their small table.
"Put those on my tab, pal," a slick, uninvited voice cuts in, directing the comment to the departing waiter.
The man leaning against their booth is the definition of a local sleaze. He wears a polyester shirt unbuttoned a few options too low, a thick gold chain nestled in a patch of chest hair, and a greasy, self-satisfied grin that suggests he thinks he’s God’s gift to Westlake Village.
"This kinda scenery is rare around here," the man says, his eyes traveling a little too slowly between the two of them.
Sabrina lets out a heavy sigh that mutates halfway through into a sharp, derisive snort. She looks down at her whiskey glass, completely unimpressed.
The man ignores the frostiness, pulling out the empty chair at the end of the table. "May I?"
Sabrina shifts her gaze across the table to Kelly. Kelly catches her eye and gives a subtle, almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders—a silent, professional communication between partners. Let's see what he wants.
"Sure," Sabrina says, her voice smooth and deceptively welcoming. "Go ahead."
As the man sits and launches into a practiced, oily monologue about his "business dealings" up in the mountains, Sabrina’s internal investigator radar begins to ping. He’s trying too hard to sound casual, but his questions about why two beautiful women are traveling alone feel less like a pickup line and more like an interrogation. A cold realization washes over her: this sleaze isn't just a vacationing predator. He’s connected to whatever is happening with Wycinski. He’s one of the bad guys.
Instantly, Sabrina shifts gears. The intellectual investigator vanishes, replaced by a flirtatious, slightly naive persona. She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, playing him like a fiddle. "So, you're staying here long?" Sabrina asks, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. "What room are you in?"
Across the table, Kelly’s eyes widen. A look of genuine shock flashes across her gorgeous features, her whiskey glass halting halfway to her lips. She kicks Sabrina gently under the table, but Sabrina completely ignores the warning.
The sleaze grins, thinking his luck has just turned up aces. "Number eight. Just down the east wing."
"Eight?" Sabrina gasps, her eyes lighting up with a brilliant, artificial enthusiasm. She claps her hands together softly. "Eight is my lucky number!"
Kelly’s look of shock instantly morphs into a deeply pissed-off glare. Her jaw tightens so hard a small muscle leaps in her cheek. The word eight echoes in the air, a direct, painful reminder of the room numbers, shared spaces, and the very boundaries Sabrina is currently flirting with for the sake of the hustle.
"Is that so?" the man chuckles, leaning in closer. "Well, why don't we go check out how lucky it really is? I’ve got a premium bottle of scotch over there."
"I’d love to," Sabrina says, sliding out of the booth with a dazzling smile.
They exit the lounge together, stepping into the carpeted hallway. But before they can take more than a few paces toward the east wing, Sabrina halts, tapping her bare wrist with a gasp of artificial dismay.
She turns a brilliant, apologetic smile up at the sleaze. "Oh, uniform hazard. I forgot my bracelet at the table. Wait right here, I'll be right back."
"Don't keep me waiting long, beautiful," the man smirks, leaning against the hallway wallpaper.
Sabrina turns on her heel and glides back into the barroom. She is gone for less than a minute—a lightning-fast pivot that leaves no room for Kelly to sit and agonize over a sudden choice, but plenty of time to lay out the plan. She drops right back into the seat opposite Kelly, who is still fuming, staring fiercely at the empty chair. Kelly leans across the table immediately, her voice low, fierce, and vibrating with an intense, territorial warning.
"Eight is not your lucky number!" Kelly hisses, her amber eyes burning into Sabrina’s.
"Kelly, listen to me," Sabrina whispers rapidly, her voice a sharp, urgent stream as she leans in close, their faces inches apart. "He’s a tail. He’s checking on us because of what happened with the Professor. I'm going to follow him to his room, get a look at his layout, and see what he knows. I've got this completely under control."
The fury in Kelly’s chest deflates in a single, sudden exhale. She blinks, the fuming anger dissolving instantly into a wave of profound, exasperated frustration over her girlfriend's absolute inability to just let a case rest. She stares at Sabrina, a mix of disbelief and reluctant awe fighting for dominance on her face.
Kelly lets out a soft, defeated laugh, shaking her head. "I can't even stay mad at you. You're fucking brilliant."
Sabrina offers a small, wry smile, her eyes softening as she looks at the woman she loves. "You mean bullheaded."
"Both things can be true," Kelly murmurs, her tone thick with an undeniable, fierce affection.
In the dim, quiet corners of the sparse room, under the watchful eyes of a world that forces them to keep their love in the shadows, they can't lean across the table and kiss. They can't hold hands openly. But with a synchronized, instinctive movement born of two years of shared secrets, they both extend their hands beneath the edge of the wooden table. They link their pinky fingers together tightly. The small, matching silver bands on their fingers clink together with a tiny, sharp, and entirely private sound—a sacred promise of safety and devotion shared between them in the dark. The touch lasts for only a beautiful, fleeting second before Sabrina reluctantly breaks the link, straightening her posture.
"I have to get back before he gets suspicious," Sabrina whispers, her investigator mask snapping right back into place.
"Be careful," Kelly says softly, her eyes tracking Sabrina with an intense, lingering care as her girlfriend turns and runs back toward the hallway where the sleaze is waiting.
Inside room number eight, the air smells faintly of stale cigars and cheap cologne, but Sabrina steps across the threshold without a single flicker of hesitation. She stays completely in charge, keeping her voice pitched to a low, breathless purr. Before the sleaze can even think about closing the distance, her hands are already on his body, lazily tracing the lapels of his polyester jacket, keeping him off-balance and entirely focused on her touch.
"Can I interest you in a little bubbly, beautiful?" he asks, his greasy grin widening as he moves toward the small wet bar in the corner.
"Oh, only if it's the right kind," Sabrina coos, her fingers sliding down his chest with a playful, teasing friction. She gives him a brilliant, demanding smile. "I have a terrible weakness for Dom Pérignon. The '55, if they have it."
The sleaze hesitates for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening slightly at the mention of a vintage that is bound to cost him a pretty penny, but his vanity wins out. He snatches up the bedside rotary phone to call room service, completely hooked. While they wait for the delivery, Sabrina doesn't let up for a second. She circles him like a sleek cat, keeping the entire interaction highly flirtatious but firmly under her control. Whenever he tries to lean in, she playfully pushes him away, gracefully dancing around the velvet armchairs and the heavy wooden coffee table to keep a safe, teasing distance between them.
"Now, don't be impatient," she chides, tilting her head with a sultry wink. "You haven't even told me anything about yourself. What brings a handsome man like you to a quiet place like Westlake? What do you do?"
"Let's just say I'm in the hatchet business," the man smirks, leaning against the bedpost and tracking her movements. He says it with a slick, corporate air, as if he simply fires underperforming executives in a high-rise office, but Sabrina’s ears prick up instantly. "Me and my friends, we rented out that swanky chalet right on the lakeside. Real private. We've actually got someone in holding over there right now."
Sabrina catches the double meaning instantly. In holding. The hatchet business. Every single phrase running out of his mouth is clever, structured to sound like ordinary corporate jargon to a regular girl, but to an Angel, it’s a direct confession of a kidnapping. Before he can bridge the gap between them, Sabrina holds up a manicured hand, stepping behind a high-backed chair.
"Ah, ah, ah. Nothing happens until the champagne arrives," she insists, her voice dropping to a teasing, conspiratorial whisper. "I'm very adamant about that. After all, I certainly don't want Jeeves to see me in my lingerie when he knocks on the door."
The sleaze lets out a low chuckle, thoroughly charmed and completely blind to the fact that he is being played like a fiddle.
When the room service waiter finally knocks, delivering the ice bucket and the pricey vintage, the sleaze’s eyes light up with anticipation. He signs the check with a flourish, turning back to her with victory in his eyes. But Sabrina is already moving. She trails her fingers lazily up his shirt, stopping just beneath his chin.
"I'm just going to refresh myself for a moment," she murmurs, her dark eyes flashing as she indicates the bathroom door. "I just love long, hot showers."
"Don't take too long," he calls after her, already struggling with the cork.
Inside the bathroom, Sabrina shuts the door and immediately tests the brass knob. She lets out a soft, frustrated hiss—the lock is broken, completely turning the knob without catching the mechanism. She has to act fast. Kneeling beneath the porcelain sink, she rummages through the vanity and finds exactly what she needs: a discarded pair of thick, dark pantyhose and a heavy, yellow terrycloth shower jacket left behind by the resort staff. She springs into action, hanging the jacket from the shower head and using the pantyhose to tie it securely in place. She turns the hot water dial all the way to the right, letting the steam instantly cloud up the room.
The bathroom features an odd, bumpy glass shower door. It isn't transparent, but through the textured glass, the steam and the cascading water blend the yellow jacket and dark hose into a convincing silhouette of a human body. Sabrina steps back, humming a cheerful tune at the top of her lungs, occasionally waving the hanging garments closer to the glass to mimic movement. She shudders, a flash of pure revulsion crossing her face at the absolute nightmare of spending another single second around that man.
Satisfied that the illusion will hold for at least a few minutes, Sabrina moves silently to the frosted bathroom window. She unlocks it, pushes it open into the crisp winter air, and slips out onto the ledge. With practiced, athletic grace, she scales the rustic stone siding of the building, finds the iron fire escape, and climbs down into the shadows of the rear courtyard. Slipping through a side service door, Sabrina navigates the labyrinth of the hotel's lower level until she finds the maid's closet. It is the tail end of the afternoon shift change, a chaotic blur of linen carts and rattling keys.
She ducks behind a rack of clean uniforms, waiting patiently until the room empties out, leaving only one late maid who is frantically sorting through her final cart in a desperate hurry to clock out. Sabrina snatches a yellow legal pad and a stray pencil from a supply shelf, squares her shoulders, and marches right out into the open. She adopts a frantic, breathless pace, flipping through the blank pages of the notepad as if she is managing a major corporate crisis.
"Excuse me," Sabrina says rapidly, cutting off the late maid's path. "Your name is... uh..."
The maid blinks, startled, gripping her apron. "Mary."
"Mary! That's right," Sabrina says, her pencil flying across the page as if checking off a master ledger. "Uh, Mary, uh..."
"Jeffries," the maid supplies, looking confused.
"That's right. Mary Jeffries!" Sabrina nods vigorously, never breaking her stride. "And your mother's maiden name was, uh..."
"Johnson."
"Right! Susan Johnson!"
"No," Mary corrects, a little defensively. "Evelyn Johnson."
Sabrina stops flipping the pages, finally looking up with a brilliant, admiring smile that radiates total warmth. "Evelyn Johnson! Boy, there's just no tripping you up, is there, Mary?"
Mary puffs her chest out slightly, a little proud. "Big deal. I know my mother's first name."
Instantly, Sabrina’s expression shifts. She drops her voice to a deeply serious, confidential whisper, locking eyes with the woman. "I have one more question, Mary. Consider it very carefully before you answer, because it could mean a great deal to you. Alright?"
Mary nods slowly, her impatient rush completely forgotten as she looks at Sabrina with total seriousness.
"Now," Sabrina continues, leaning in. "Do you have a relative who recently passed away, perhaps someone you hadn't seen in quite some time?"
Mary’s eyes widen as she searches her memory. "I... I had an aunt... uh... Margaret! Aunt Margaret on my father's side. Is that right?"
"Quite right!" Sabrina declares, her pencil scribbling furiously onto the legal pad.
Mary watches the pencil move, her heart starting to race. "Hey, uh... why are you telling me all these things? What's going on?"
Sabrina looks up, her face a mask of solemn, official gravity. "Mary. County courthouse, probate division. Judge Phillips. Your Aunt Margaret's will is due to be read in exactly half an hour."
Mary’s jaw drops. "... Her will?"
"That's right," Sabrina says smoothly, stepping over to the locker and handing Mary her winter jacket. "And if you leave right now, you'll just make it."
"But... my shift! My supervisor—"
"I already worked it all out with your boss, don't you worry about a thing," Sabrina reassures her, gently guiding her toward the exit door. "Now hurry!"
The moment Mary bolts down the hallway, completely ecstatic, Sabrina moves like lightning. She ducks into the locker area, quickly changes into a spare maid’s uniform, and pins her hair up. Spotting a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses in an open locker, she slides them onto her nose. She blinks against the slight blur—luckily, whoever owns them is only mildly blind, and her vision remains sharp enough to operate. Picking up a silver tray of finger sandwiches, Sabrina blends into the line of catering staff heading toward the resort's private dining estate. She moves unnoticed into the grand luncheon hall, keeping her head low as she serves the crowded tables, her eyes scanning the room until she spots him: Peter Wycinski, sitting frozen at the center table, flanked by the men in suits.
She edges closer, straining her ears to listen, but her focus cuts out when her tray catches the edge of a mahogany chair. A porcelain plate slips, shattering loudly against the hardwood floor. Heads turn instantly. Before the security detail can focus on her face through the thick glasses, Sabrina turns on her heel and flees through the service pantry, slipping out into the winter twilight.
Back in the privacy of their lavish suite, the door clicks open. Sabrina steps into the sitting room, still wearing the starch-stiff maid’s uniform, her hair slightly disheveled and Mary’s spare glasses perched crookedly on her nose. Kelly is standing by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She takes one look at the ensemble, her eyes tracking the fitted apron and the spectacles, and a slow, incredibly sultry smile spreads across her face.
"Nice outfit," Kelly says, her voice dropping to a low, appreciative purr. The sheer sight of it is the absolute stuff of dreams, a playful spark flaring in her amber eyes despite the gravity of the afternoon.
Exhausted by the adrenaline, the fire escape scale, and the hustle, Sabrina lets out a long, ragged sigh. The investigator mask crumbles completely, and she simply melts forward into her girlfriend's arms. Kelly catches her instantly, wrapping her strong arms tightly around Sabrina’s waist, pulling her close against her chest and letting her rest her head against her shoulder.
Safe in the sanctuary of their shared embrace, Sabrina begins to divulge everything she learned. "The sleaze in room eight is part of a kidnapping team," she murmurs into the crook of Kelly's neck. "They've rented a lakeside chalet, and they're holding someone there. Wycinski's words had double meanings, Kel. He's being handled."
Kelly nods slowly, her chin resting against Sabrina's dark hair as she holds her tight. "That matches what I just picked up down by the lobby phones," Kelly reveals, her grip tightening protectively. "I overheard one of the suits talking. There's a switch in play, Bree. Someone who looks identical to the professor is going to take his place, resign from the United Nations, and trigger a massive international scandal."
From the desk, Jill, who has already changed into a comfortable robe, looks up from her notepad. Her pen flies across the paper as she writes down every single detail for their records, her expression grim. "A political double... that explains why the man at the pool looked right through you. It wasn't the real professor."
Kelly slowly pulls back from the embrace, her hands sliding up to cup Sabrina’s cheeks. She tilts Sabrina’s head up gently, her thumb wiping a stray smudge of dust from her cheekbone. The thick glasses slide up slightly, but neither of them cares. Looking down at the woman who has been her rock for two hidden, beautiful years, Kelly’s eyes soften with pure, unadulterated devotion. She leans down, bridging the final inch between them, and tilts her head to press a deep, warm, and fiercely tender kiss against Sabrina's lips—a quiet promise of safety before the real fight begins.