12

Leila speared an olive off her plate with the kind of laziness that came with a long evening and bad company. The party was getting noisier, guests drifting away towards the library, where the port was served. She noticed Tom’s eyes flicker toward the small curtained alcove in the middle of the corridor. That told her all she needed to know—he’d heard the voices too.

Without a word, she gave him a signal, and they slipped out of their seats, moving toward the alcove like a couple of thieves on a job. They ducked behind the heavy velvet curtain across from where the voices were coming, pretending to be locked in some passionate clinch. It was just for show, but felt not at all disagreeable. The curtain was seriously dusty, and it made Leila's eyes itchy. She probably smeared her mascara evenly on her cheeks, but she couldn't care less: the real action was happening behind the curtain opposite.

Three voices—two men, one woman—were arguing behind the fabric. AI was the topic, which wasn’t unusual nowadays, but then the conversation took a sharp left turn. The woman, likely Mrs. Grossman, mentioned strange things happening in the neighborhood the past few days. Leila’s ears pricked up. As the new girl in town, she hadn’t been let in on the local stories.

One of the men confirmed a rumor she heard from Dr Sanchez: the professor had gone missing two days ago. There was talk of some notebooks, stashed away in the museum. Then a guy with a strong French accent, laughing like a man who enjoys his own jokes a little too much, started talking about how someone had been reading his research books and making notes in the margins. Apparently, they were notes made by someone with all the intelligence of a brick.

The murderous landlord, Mr Grossman, piped up with a story of his own—someone had been creeping around his house at night. He’d heard footsteps with and even caught sight of a white figure gliding through the hall like a cheap horror freak. Mrs. Grossman, not to be outdone, added that someone had been peeping in her window last night. The Frenchman chipped in, saying someone had been sneaking around, though he thought it might’ve just been cleaners. Grossman scoffed at the idea. Not possible, he said. Not in his house, not out of designated hours.

The museum curator, unfazed by the spooky chatter, claimed he slept like the dead. Still, he’d noticed something odd—his ski boots were always wet in the morning, as if someone had been doing laps in the snow while he snored.

Leila’s mind was racing. This wasn’t just idle gossip. There was something real under all the bravado, but what? She and Tom stayed glued to the curtains, breathing shallow, waiting for more. They weren’t disappointed.

The voices in the alcove started talking about defending themselves from their adversaries, and then some AI virus slipped into the conversation. The kind of thing that could take down systems with the flick of a switch. Leila froze. This was no ordinary hack. This was something bigger. Global. European governments weren’t just in danger—they were the targets. And the kicker? The cult of Rulers behind this grand plan didn’t even have the virus yet. That was the missing piece!

Tom shifted beside her, his expression uneadable, but she could feel his tension. This was more than either of them had bargained for. They’d stumbled onto a plot so twisted, it made the usual cloak-and-dagger games seem like kid’s stuff.

Suddenly, a thud from the corridor sent Leila’s heart into her throat. The conversation behind the curtain cut off as quick as a snuffed candle. She grabbed Tom’s arm, pulling him deeper into the shadows, holding her breath as the footsteps grew closer.

The footsteps grew louder, heavy and deliberate, like whoever it was had all the time in the world. Leila’s heart raced. Whoever was behind that curtain could only be trouble, and she wasn’t keen on introductions. She tightened her grip on Tom’s arm, pulling him deeper into their velvet hideaway.

Then, the voices behind the opposite curtain shifted. The woman—likely Mrs. Grossman—whispered something urgent, and the sound of hurried movement followed. Leila’s stomach twisted. They were wrapping things up, and fast. Whoever these conspirators were, they’d caught on that something wasn’t right.

Tom, ever the cool cat, shifted his weight, moving as if they were still mid-passionate embrace. But beneath that calm exterior, Leila could tell he was ready to bolt. His body was tensed, every muscle on alert. Leila wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or terrified by how calm he remained.

The footsteps halted right outside their alcove, close enough that Leila could smell decent aftershave and cigarette smoke. The sort of scent that sticks to people used to making deals in dark corners. The silence hung thick, and for a second, she was sure they were about to get caught. Then the footsteps resumed, moving away, toward the library. Whoever it was, they had bigger things to deal with than two amorous guests.

Leila let out a slow breath, realizing she’d been holding it the entire time. Tom gave her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow cocked, the silent question lingering: Do we stay or do we go?

She nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and they both slid out from behind the curtain, careful not to make a sound. They crept down the corridor toward the library. The voices had moved there, and from the sound of it, things were still heating up. Mrs. Grossman’s hushed tone reached them first, her voice edged with nerves.

“…the virus is our key, but without it, we’re powerless. The emperor’s return hinges on it, and we’re not even close to locate the mask.”

Leila’s eyes widened. So the plot wasn’t just about overthrowing governments—this was about crowning a new ruler. The rightful emperor of Europe? It sounded like something out of a bad historical novel, but the seriousness in their voices was chilling. This wasn’t just talk. They believed it.

One of the men, probably Frenchman, chimed in. “We have time. The professor’s notebooks will give us what we need. Once we locate the artifact, the virus is as good as ours. Then, every government will fall, and Europe will be ours to reshape.”

Leila felt a cold sweat break out across her neck. The artifact. It had to be the one hidden in her aunt Christina’s chalet. That’s why they’d been circling her aunt. The car accident wasn’t just a warning—it was part of their plan to get closer to the one thing that could complete their twisted puzzle.

Tom leaned in, his lips near her ear. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Leila nodded. They had overheard enough to know that the stakes were beyond anything they had imagined. The cult’s plot was no longer just a crazy theory—it was real, and it was close to home.

Together, they slipped back into the shadows, making their way toward the exit. The night air outside the villa hit them like a slap in the face, sharp and cold. Leila’s mind raced as they walked quickly down the driveway, away from the house of secrets.

“We’re in over our heads,” she muttered.

Tom shot her a sidelong glance, a grim smile on his lips. “Welcome to the deep end. The question is, what do we do now?”

Leila didn’t have an answer. Not yet.