Naomi Belle

The tea was lukewarm by the time I lifted the porcelain cup again, its faint steam curling in the stale pressurized air of my private jet. France shrank behind me in silence. The stewardess wheeled in a rack of clothes—black, sleek, expensive. My colors, my style, my armor.

None of it would do.

I set the cup down, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, then turned sharply toward her. My finger cut through the air like a blade.

"Give me your spare clothing," I ordered.

Her eyes widened. "Mine?"

"Problem?" I tilted my head, calm but sharp. She knew who I was, or at least enough. The leader of an empire doesn't stroll through an airport looking like herself.

"Not at all!" She scrambled out, heels clicking frantically as if her life depended on it. Which, for all she knew, it did.

I leaned back into the leather seat, nausea creeping up—not from the flight, but from the sheer humiliation of being forced out of Paris like some petty criminal. Worse, I had stumbled into my birth parents. Wealthy, polished, desperate to claim me like some long-lost heir. They wouldn't let me breathe without demanding meetings, photographs, family dinners. I didn't trust them. Never had. Never would.

You can't trust rich people.

Then came the assassin. One of my biggest deals had barely closed before some desperate fool thought he could put a bullet in me. He failed—the product was safe—but Paris was suddenly too hot. Too many eyes. Too much risk. And so, America. A country full of oblivious to Europe idiots.

The perfect camouflage.

The stewardess reappeared, out of breath, holding out her folded clothes. They looked like... something dragged out of a church orphanage. Frills. Soft cotton. Innocent pastel bows.

I was all too familiar.

I narrowed my eyes at her. She looked the part herself—sweet makeup, doe-eyed, delicate. The kind of weakness I despised.

Perfect.

"Do my hair and makeup like yours," I said flatly. "I need to be unrecognizable."

She froze.

"I'll pay you extra," I added, flicking my fingers toward the suitcase at my side. "Do a good job, and you'll never know poverty again."

"Yes ma'am!" she snapped to attention, producing brushes and pins like a soldier producing weapons.

By the time she finished, I felt physically ill. The mirror confirmed why. My black hair was wound into looped braids, tied off with a massive bow. My sharp, mature makeup—gone. In its place: glittering eyes, softened lashes, a flushed pink gloss. A puppy, a doll. A stranger. The dress clung to me like humiliation itself—sweet, girlish, disgusting.

"I hate it," I muttered.

"I apologize—"

"No." I cut her off. "You did a good job. Your money's in the suitcase. Take it and don't let anyone know." My voice was cold steel. "This never happened. You never saw me, understood?"

Her breath caught when she peeked inside the briefcase, then bowed her head as if I were a saint instead of the devil. "I'll take it to my grave."

Cheap price for silence.

***

The airport swallowed me whole. Too big, too loud, every fluorescent light exposing me as a farce. I looked like a damn child—no, worse, a twenty-five-year-old in costume. My shoes squeaked. My bow bounced with every step. Humiliating.

Son of a bitch, why's this place so big?

A hand clamped around my arm, rough enough to bruise. I hissed, "What the fuck?"

The man's face was scarred, his teeth yellow. "Aren't you La Grande Dame?" His voice was loud, baiting. Before I could move, he whipped out a knife. A woman nearby screamed, shrill enough to cut through the air. Heads turned, phones rose. A stage.

Perfect setup. If I fought back, everyone would know exactly who I was.

"Don't hurt my daughter!" a voice wailed. An older woman rushed forward with two frantic men at her side.

What the hell?

Then I spotted him. Colin, my right hand man. Dressed like an idiot, like some caricature of an American gangster playing businessman. He should have blended in; instead, he looked like trouble with a fedora. "Don't hurt the innocent!" he bellowed.

My knife-wielding friend raised his weapon higher—

—and was dropped to his knees in an instant, convulsing as a taser crackled against his side. Security swarmed, cuffing him and dragging him down. Pathetic. But lucky. For me.

"Naomi?" the older woman gasped.

Shit. Weakness. I had to play it. My only cover was these people and their obsession with their long-lost daughter. I'd stared down guns before, but to them? This was trauma.

I let my knees buckle, breath shallow. "Oh, that was scary," I whispered, dropping like a wounded lamb.

They rushed to catch me, arms wrapping around me as though I were porcelain. "Are you alright?" one of the men demanded.

"What's going on?" I gasped, feigning panic. My mind raced. I couldn't flee. Not yet. Too many eyes. Too many witnesses.

So I gave them what they wanted: weakness. I let my eyes roll back and pretended to faint.

"Call an ambulance now!" someone shouted.

The crowd erupted, chaos swirling around me. And in the center of it all, dressed like a doll, I let them cradle me—La Grande Dame disguised as nothing more than a weak little girl.

Pathetic. Perfect.

***

The hospital stank of antiseptic and desperation. I kept my eyes closed, body still as stone, letting the machines beep around me. The woman beside me—my so-called birth mother—was sobbing into a wad of tissues like I'd died.

Annoying. Weird.

I got it. She birthed me. But did she forget the part where she threw me away in France? Now suddenly she wanted to drown me in tears? Where was this melodrama when she signed the papers?

Does she think I'm an idiot?

"Mom, she's still resting. Let's get some food and come back," one of the men murmured, trying to coax her off.

Her sniffles trailed off, softer, fainter, until the door clicked shut. Silence. Finally.

I cracked an eye, then both, breathing out hard. "Fuck." My hand slipped into my bag, pulling out a cigarette. I cracked the window just enough, lit up, and let the smoke curl out. Blessed silence. No more sobbing drilling into my skull.

I'd barely taken my first drag when the door knob rattled.

Shit.

I crushed the cigarette out and tossed it, sliding behind the door as it opened.

A tall man stepped in—blond hair slicked neat, blue eyes sharp as glass, jaw locked in perpetual disapproval. Stern. Arrogant.

"Huh," he muttered, scanning the empty bed. "Wasn't that stupid girl supposed to be here?"

Stupid?

La Grande Dame and stupid don't belong in the same fucking sentence.

I moved before he even registered me. Yanking his tie from his neck, I looped it over his eyes and jerked hard. He staggered, swinging wildly. I ducked, slammed my boot into his side, and shoved him flat on the bed. His body bounced against the mattress as I pinned him down.

"Who the fuck do you work for?" I snarled.

He twisted, trying to rise. "What the hell? I'm the boss around—"

I shoved his head back into the sheets. His teeth clicked from the force. "Answer my fucking question before I kill you." My hand closed around a scalpel left lazily on a nurse's tray. Sharp, thin, perfect.

His eyes—what little I could see through the crooked tie—flashed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Tell me who you are, or this won't end well." I yanked the sheet from beneath him and bound his wrists to the bed frame in two quick knots. He struggled, weakly, like a fish in a net.

"Who the hell are you?" he spat.

Is he fucking deaf?

A knock rattled the door. "Mr. Smith, are you alright?"

I froze.

Fucking coward called backup?

My eyes flicked to the window. Three floors up. Easy. I'd done worse in heels.

I shoved the sash open and swung myself out, hanging by my fingertips. Voices spilled from inside.

"Mr. Smith, what the heck? How'd you end up like this?"

The blond—Smith, apparently—growled, "I don't know, but that girl wasn't in here!"

"Oh, I thought you wanted to do something kinky with your fiancée," another voice snorted.

"Shut up! Pull up the CCTV immediately! I want to know where she is right now!"

"Mr. Smith, you should be nice to a fragile girl."

"Fragile girl? What kind of fragile girl does that and jumps out a window?!"

That was my cue. I let go.

The bushes broke my fall with a harsh crunch. Leaves clawed at my skin, dirt streaked my hands, but I rolled up onto my feet in one fluid motion.

An older couple stood frozen nearby, jaws slack.

"Sorry," I said, flashing them a polite smile before strolling off like I hadn't just dropped three stories onto their landscaping.

I blended into the stream of pedestrians, heart steady.

Lucky escape. Another minute and I'd either be dead... or worse, shackled to some limp excuse of a man like Smith. If my birth parents thought they could shove him on me, they'd learn otherwise soon enough. I'd make damn sure of it.

I had no time for their family fantasies. No time for weak men.

I just needed to bide my time. Let the heat die down. Wait until the assassin circling my empire showed his face.

Then, La Grande Dame would remind the world who she was.