"Every alliance has a price. Some are paid in trust. Others in blood."
Location: Marrakesh, Morocco – Underground Auction Hall – 11:45 PM
The room pulsed with danger. Gold silk draped the walls. Smoke coiled from antique hookahs. Billionaires, smugglers, warlords, and politicians mingled, sipping rare whiskey and trading smiles like daggers.
At the centre, on a raised marble platform, stood the evening's prize: an ancient ivory sculpture—a serpent swallowing a crown.
Isabel adjusted her midnight-blue gown, the slit exposing just enough leg to distract anyone watching. Her hair was pinned tight, lips blood-red. She no longer looked like a grieving daughter. She looked like temptation dressed in war paint.
Rhea whispered through the comm in her ear. "You're up. The buyer is inside. Blonde. British accent. Green dress. Goes by 'The Widow.' She killed her last husband with a dessert spoon."
"Charming," Isabel murmured. Across the room, the widow raised a glass. Beautiful, lethal, and watching Isabel with amusement. She glided toward her like a cat sensing a mouse—except both were predators.
"You must be new," she purred. "I don't come often," Isabel replied smoothly.
"Pity." The Widow touched Isabel's arm. "You're quite something. Reminds me of a girl I once mentored… before she stole from me." "Sounds like she had taste."
The Widow laughed—a low, dangerous sound. "Do you know what that sculpture is?"
Isabel kept her face neutral. "A collector's piece?"
"It's a death contract," The Widow said softly. "Used by Ivory Phoenix agents to mark betrayal."
Isabel's stomach flipped, but her smile held. "Careful," the Widow whispered. "In this world, trust is earned with bodies, not words."
Backstage – Auction Vault – 12:14 AM
Ethan worked fast, disabling the vault's alarm. Gus kept watch. The real tusk—number two of seven—was inside, swapped with the auctioned replica. Gus muttered, "This is suicide. We're robbing a room full of killers."
Ethan ignored him. "I've done worse for less." Gus grinned. "Still hung up on the girl?"
Ethan didn't answer. But the answer was yes.
Auction Floor – 12:19 AM
The Widow clinked her glass against Isabel's. "Shall we seal our conversation with a deal?" She held out a delicate velvet case. Inside: an old colonial treaty signed in blood ink—on ivory parchment.
Isabel's pulse spiked. The fourth clue in her father's journal.
She reached for it. The Widow pulled it back. "Everything has a price, darling."
"What's yours?" "Truth." The Widow leaned close. "Tell me who sent you."
Before Isabel could speak, chaos erupted. A masked intruder—Gus—set off a diversion smoke bomb. Alarms blared. Isabel snatched the case, kicked off her heels, and ran.
The Widow's eyes sparkled. "Oh, you are her daughter."
Rooftops of Marrakesh – 12:27 AM
Ethan grabbed Isabel's arm as she leapt from the balcony onto the next building.
She gasped. "You left me down there!"
"You said you could handle it," he snapped. "You handled it." Sirens wailed in the distance.
Isabel clutched the case. "The Widow knows who I am."
"She always did."
"You could've told me!" Ethan looked at her. "Would you have gone in if I had?"
She glared. "Yes." He stared at her for a long beat. Then smiled slightly.
"You're starting to scare me, Laurent." She didn't smile back. But something in her chest burned bright