Chapter 578
Chapter 578:
Eliza wore a stunning, floor-length black gown that clung perfectly to her figure. A delicate onyx half-mask covered her eyes, making her look like a cold, untouchable shadow. Mr. Hayes walked beside her in a sharp black tuxedo and a simple black domino mask. A step behind them trailed a young, nervous-looking woman in a plain black dress, playing the role of Eliza’s personal assistant — in truth, a junior analyst from the Koch security team, chosen for her unassuming appearance.
The room was packed with billionaires, politicians, and socialites. The air was thick with expensive champagne and heavy perfume.
Eliza ignored all of it. Her eyes moved across the room with the precision of a sniper.
The analyst was trembling. She had never been in a room with this much money before. She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drained it in one terrified gulp. Mr. Hayes noticed. He reached back and patted her arm gently.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “We’re just here to make a withdrawal p>
The analyst nodded — and immediately reached for a second glass.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Hayes stepped away to distract a cluster of senators who had grown too curious about Eliza. The analyst took up position beside Eliza near a massive marble pillar. The alcohol had hit her bloodstream fast. Her cheeks burned bright red.
“Madam,” the analyst said, her words slightly blurred as she leaned closer. “Mr. Croft — he’s not what the tabloids say.” She dropped her voice to a loud whisper. “He’s a ghost p>
R𝗲а𝗱 𝗳𝘳om 𝘺о𝘂𝗿 рhо𝗇𝖾 о𝗇 ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗆
Eliza kept her eyes on the crowd and listened.
“He’s not a playboy,” the analyst continued, the words spilling out in a drunken rush. “The life he lives here in D.C. — it’s a cover. My cousin works for the State Department. She ran a soft background check for me.” The analyst stifled a sob. “He has no social security number. No credit history. He officially doesn’t exist p>
Eliza went completely still.
A ghost.
A disgraced, exiled rich boy living off a trust fund did not get erased from every government database.
“And,” the analyst sniffled, wiping her nose, “he has this old photograph. He keeps it in a safety deposit box at a bank in Zurich p>
“What photograph?” Eliza asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“A picture of him and Dallas Koch when they were teenagers,” the analyst said. “They’re standing in front of a military transport plane. Both of them in combat fatigues p>
A physical jolt ran the length of Eliza’s spine.
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together all at once.
Alistair and Dallas were not bitter enemies. They had never been rivals. If Alistair was secretly close to Dallas, and Alistair was living a dangerous, invisible life in D.C., then Alistair was working for Dallas.
Before Eliza could fully process the revelation, she spotted her target.
Alistair Croft stood near the balcony doors, dripping with charisma, surrounded by a ring of younger women competing for his attention. Eliza handed her empty glass to the analyst.
“Stay here,” she said.
She moved straight through the crowd with an intense, predatory grace that caused the women surrounding Alistair to step aside without quite knowing why.
“Mr. Croft,” Eliza said. Her voice cut cleanly through the music. “I hear you are the only one who can open a very old, very locked box p>
It was perfectly calculated bait.