The most dangerous lies are never spoken. They are worn.
I stood in front of the massive obsidian mirror in my private bedchamber. The morning sun filtered through the heavy crimson drapes, casting a warm glow over the pristine white silk of my loungewear.
I stared at my reflection for a very long time.
Victor Hess, the Munich cartel cleaner, was completely gone. The rugged, scarred hitman who lived in the shadows and spoke in threats had been entirely erased from the physical world. Staring back at me was Crown Princess Lance Adrian von Eisenward. The Imperial Omega. The fragile, devastatingly beautiful treasure of the Empire.
"You need to look softer," I whispered to my reflection.
I meticulously analyzed my posture. My shoulders were pulled back too far. My chin was tilted up in a classic display of martial defiance. My emerald eyes were entirely dead, completely flat and analytical. It was the stance of a killer evaluating a target.
