Page 104 of BounBound By Scars

She was poetry wrapped in tactical instinct. Her long black gown flowed like water but clung to her like sin. The neckline plunged low but not desperate—tastefully distracting. For me.

And God, that back. Smooth skin framed by a dress that knew when to stop and when to tease.

Her hair was pinned in a sleek low bun. Clean. Sophisticated.

And inside that bun, tucked just beneath the hair comb? A modified Sentrix 5.4, rigged to pass through standard magnetic scanning without tripping any alerts. Zane had rigged it weeks ago, with a graphite shell and low-frequency pulse mode. She’d only activate it once we hit Phase Two.

Dylan and I each carried our phones—network isolated, quantum encrypted. Delara had hers strapped to the inside of her thigh under a split seam in her emerald dress.

The Secret Service agent at the screening checkpoint gave me a once-over. “Name?”

His massive tattooed hand grabbed the tablet from the other security officer. Casually scanning the names on the list.

“Dr. Sahil Chawla. We’re from the IPCRC,” I replied smoothly, passing over the forged invite.

He scanned the QR code and checked the list on his tablet. His piercing gray eyes held mine for a beat and then he nodded. “Welcome to the White House, sir.”

They moved us through individually. Amelia walked with the confidence of a woman who belonged here. She made eye contact with the agent, smiled politely, and breezed through. Dylan gave a curt nod and kept walking. Delara… well, she flirted with the poor agent in her very refined fake American accent. He smirked slightly and waved her in so fast I almost rolled my eyes.

Once we were through, we regrouped under the ceiling of the East Colonnade Hallway. Classical paintings lined the walls, and ahead, strings of warm light and orchestral music bled out from the East Room where the gala was in full swing.

Delara glanced at her phone. “Consignment is in the main guest bathroom. Behind the third marble panel to the left of the mirror. Sebastian’s contact was thorough.”

“I’ll go with her,” Dylan offered, his voice quiet but firm.

I nodded. “Stay sharp. We’ll recon the floor.”

As they walked off, Amelia fell into step beside me. I glanced at her, my jaw tightening instinctively.

“You could’ve warned me,” I murmured.

She raised a brow. “About what?”

“That dress.”

She smirked. “We’re undercover. I’m supposed to blend in.”

“You’re not blending in. You’re… killing me.”

Amelia chuckled softly. “Focus, Dr. Chawla.”

I shook my head, smiling.

We stepped into the East Room, and I scanned the crowd. Crystal chandeliers hung above a sea of polished suits and sparkling gowns. Waiters moved gracefully with trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Classical strings played softly in the corner.

I took two flutes and handed one to Amelia, not because I wanted to drink—just for the illusion. Eyes were everywhere.

“Three cameras,” Amelia murmured, her lips barely moving. “One on each corner, except for the main entrance.”

I nodded. “Pressure sensors on the doors to the West Hallway. And two plainclothes agents near the floral arrangements. They’re clocking the crowd.”

Then I saw him.

George Aiden.

The newly elected President of the United States. Tall. Clean cut. Mid-forties. Salt-and-pepper hair that made him look distinguished, like he’d just stepped off the set of a political drama. He stood near the far end of the ballroom.

“He’s younger than I expected,” I muttered.

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