The "spoiling" began at dawn, though it felt more like an invasion.
Linnea was woken not by the sun, but by the rhythmic clicking of heels on marble. A small army of stylists, tailors, and jewelers had descended upon the West Wing, sent by Caspian with a single directive: Make her the envy of the capital.
"The Commander insisted on the midnight velvet," a head stylist whispered, holding up a gown that looked as though it had been spun from the night sky itself. "And the Vane Diamonds."
Linnea sat patiently as they painted her face and coiled her hair into an intricate crown, playing the role of the overwhelmed, "lucky" bride. But beneath the vanity table, her bare toe was tapping a rhythmic code against a hidden sensor she'd installed in the floorboards earlier that morning.
Pulse. Pause. Double pulse. The estate's internal server was more robust than she'd anticipated. Caspian Vane didn't just protect the Federation; he lived inside a digital fortress. To get the data she needed, she couldn't just hack in from her room. She needed a physical bridge. She needed to get into the heart of the gala—and into Caspian's personal space.
The grand ballroom of the Vane Estate was a sea of medals, silk, and whispered conspiracies. As the doors opened, the chatter died down to a low hum.
Caspian stood at the top of the grand staircase. In his black military dress uniform, he looked like a man who would rather be facing a firing squad than a social gathering. When his eyes found Linnea, they narrowed with a sharp, possessive intensity.
She looked radiant. The velvet gown clung to her curves, and the Vane Diamonds—a necklace of raw, glittering ice—rested against her collarbone. She looked like a queen, not a hostage.
He met her at the base of the stairs, extending a gloved hand. "You look... acceptable," he murmured, his voice for her ears only.
"You look like you're going to a funeral, Commander," she replied, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to his grit.
"In a way, I am. Politics is where truth goes to die." He pulled her closer, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back. To the cameras, it was a romantic gesture. To Linnea, it was a tactical move—he was keeping her in front of him, where he could watch her every breath.
"Smile, Linnea," he commanded. "The Minister of Defense is watching. Make him believe I've been tamed by my pretty new wife."
"As you wish, Caspian."
The use of his first name made his jaw tighten, but he didn't let go. Throughout the night, Caspian "spoiled" her in the most public way possible—ordering the finest champagne, introducing her to the world's elite, and keeping her tucked under his arm as if she were his most precious possession.
But "The Ghost" was working.
Every time Caspian shook hands with a rival, Linnea's hand would graze the man's sleeve. With the grace of a professional pickpocket, she planted microscopic, adhesive "spiders"—audio bugs the size of a grain of salt—on the lapels of the three men most likely to be plotting a coup.
The mission was going perfectly until they reached the terrace for a moment of "privacy."
"You're shivering," Caspian noted. He took off his heavy military cloak and draped it over her shoulders. The weight was immense, smelling of cedarwood and the sharp, clean scent of him.
"I'm fine," she said, but for a moment, the mask slipped. The cloak felt like a shield, not a cage.
He looked down at her, his gray eyes searching hers. "You're an odd woman, Linnea Song. Most girls in your position would be asking for a bigger diamond. You haven't asked for anything."
"Perhaps what I want isn't something you can buy in a shop, Commander."
His gaze darkened. For a second, the air became electric. He reached out, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. "And what is it you want?"
Before she could answer, a sharp chime echoed from her earring—a private alert. Signal detected. Personal terminal in the North Study is active.
Someone was in his study. Someone who wasn't Caspian.
Linnea didn't hesitate. She leaned into him, feigning a dizzy spell. "The champagne... it's a bit much. I need a moment of quiet."
Caspian caught her instantly, his arms like iron bands. He let her go to the solarium to "rest," but the moment he turned his back to greet a General, Linnea vanished into the shadows.
She reached the North Study in under a minute. Inside, a man in a waiter's uniform was frantically plugging a drive into Caspian's main console.
Linnea didn't shout. She stepped into the room, her silhouette framed by the moonlight.
"That's a very clumsy way to steal a decryption key," she said, her voice cold and lethal.
The waiter spun around, pulling a knife. "Who the hell are you?"
Linnea smiled—the smile of a predator. "I'm the wife. And you're in my house."