I Fell For The Voice Behind The Wall

The champagne glass in Mira’s hand was a prop, and so was she.

She had learned that lesson the hard way, three jobs ago, when she actually drank the champagne at a gala and spent the rest of the night giggling at a senator’s jokes that were not funny. Tonight she held the glass by the stem and let it warm untouched while she smiled at strangers who thought she was about to marry into one of the richest families in Ashford Bay.

The Meridian Hotel ballroom glittered with old money.

Chandeliers the size of small cars hung over three hundred guests, all of them dressed like they had something to prove. Mira wore emerald silk that cost more than her rent, borrowed for the night, tagged and returned by morning. Her dark hair was pinned into a style the stylist had called effortless, though nothing about it had been effortless at all.

A small earpiece sat hidden beneath her hair, warm against her skin.

“Say something about the shipping merger,” the voice said. “Someone is about to ask.”

She did not flinch. Two years of this work had trained her not to flinch. She turned toward the silver haired man approaching her with a drink in each hand, and by the time he opened his mouth to ask about the Voss Maritime deal, she already had an answer ready.

“Julian says the merger closes next quarter,” she said smoothly. “He is very proud of it, though he would never admit that out loud.”

The silver haired man laughed and moved on, satisfied. Mira exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, the way she always did after a save.

“Good,” the voice said in her ear. “You are getting better at lying for me.”

“I am not lying,” she murmured, barely moving her lips, a trick she had perfected. “I am performing. There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

She did not answer that. She never answered the questions that felt like they wanted a real answer.

His name was Julian Voss, though almost no one in this room had ever seen his face. The engagement had been announced six months ago, and in that time, Mira had attended eleven events as his fiancée, and she had never once laid eyes on him. He worked from somewhere in the estate, watching through cameras she was not allowed to ask about, speaking to her through an earpiece that never left her ear during a job.

The contract was clear. She was Julian Voss’s public face. He was her voice. The two of them were never supposed to meet.

It should have felt strange. For the first few events, it had. She remembered the first night she wore this earpiece, how her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped her glass, how every word out of her mouth had felt like a lie balanced on a knife edge. Now the lies came easy, smooth as the silk against her skin, and the strange part was not the pretending anymore. The strange part was how much she looked forward to hearing him speak.

She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a serving tray as a waiter passed. A woman in emerald silk, poised, unbothered, exactly the kind of woman who belonged in this room. Nobody here knew her mother’s hospital bills had once stacked up so high that Mira sold her car just to keep the lights on. Nobody here knew she had grown up two hours north in a town where champagne was something you saw in movies, not something you held by the stem and refused to drink. She had built this version of herself one contract at a time, and some nights she could not tell anymore where the performance ended and she began.

“Someone is watching you,” Julian said, his tone shifting. “Third table from the left. Camera in her bag.”

Mira’s stomach dropped, though her expression did not change. She had been trained for this too. She turned her body slightly, angling herself so her face caught better light and worse angles for a hidden lens.

“Delphine Reyes,” Julian said. “Tabloid writer. She has been trying to prove this engagement is fake for three months.”

Mira’s spine went rigid. She knew that name. She had worked against Delphine before, on a different contract, a different family, a disaster that still made her wake up some nights with her heart pounding.

Delphine did not give up. Delphine did not miss.

“What do I do?” Mira breathed.

“Walk toward her. Let her see that you are not afraid.”

“That is insane.”

“That is the only thing that works on people like her.”

Mira set her jaw and walked, glass in hand, toward the woman with the sharp eyes and the bag that was not really a bag. Delphine looked up as she approached, and something like delight crossed her face, quick and hungry.

“Mira Alcott,” Delphine said. “Or should I call you the future Mrs. Voss?”

“Either works,” Mira said, and smiled the smile that had gotten her through eleven events. “Though I think Julian prefers Mira. He says Alcott sounds like a law firm.”

It was a lie, technically, since Julian had said nothing of the sort. But it was the kind of lie that made Delphine’s mouth twitch, uncertain, because it sounded like something a real fiancée would know about her partner. Small, personal, unverifiable.

“Where is he tonight?” Delphine asked. “It has been six months and no photographs. No public appearances.

People are starting to whisper.”

“Julian has always been private,” Mira said. “You know that. His family has always been private.”

“Or he does not exist at all,” Delphine said, voice dropping low. “Or he is not who the family says he is.”

Mira’s blood went cold, though she kept her smile fixed in place. Around them the party carried on, oblivious, a string quartet working through something slow and elegant while waiters slipped between guests with trays of food nobody would finish. It was strange how a room could be so full of noise and still feel, in this one small pocket of it, completely silent.

In her ear, silence. No instructions. No warning. For the first time all night, Julian had gone quiet exactly when she needed him most.

“Julian,” she whispered, so soft even she barely heard it. “Say something.”

Nothing.

Delphine leaned closer, and her hand drifted toward the bag at her hip, toward whatever camera or recorder was hidden inside it, and Mira understood in that instant that whatever happened in the next ten seconds could end everything.

Then the voice returned, and it was not the voice she expected.

It was rougher. Unscripted. A man’s voice, low and urgent, speaking a name that was not on any of her cue cards.

“Mira, get her away from the terrace doors. Now. There is something out there she cannot see.”

It was not a line. It was not a save. It was real fear, bleeding through the earpiece, and for the first time in six months, Mira realized the voice guiding her through this world of lies had just told her the truth.