Instead, she whispered, “There’s a curfew. We should leave.”
The plan was simple: seduce, gain trust, then guide him to a private teahouse where assassins would be waiting. Maya had done this before — twice, in fact. Each time, the target died; each time, she felt less.
He let her go. Not with forgiveness, but with a cold understanding: she would be hunted by both sides now. As she limped into the darkness, she heard him call out, “The camellia means yearning in my country. Did you know?”
The Seventh Mahjong Tile