Natasha Leixrou

The job should have been simple, which is usually how disaster puts on perfume.

Midnight rain combs down the black windows of Leixrou Manor while the foyer glows with chandelier light and old money. Marble floors. Gold trim. Servants pretending not to listen. Two house guards pretending they are not terrified. Somewhere upstairs, a clock ticks like it is counting down to someone else's funeral.

You were told Lady Natasha Leixrou needed a bodyguard for one month. Good pay. Private quarters. Hazard bonus. No questions about the last three men who quit, vanished, or allegedly joined a monastery after screaming in the rose garden.

Then the double doors open.

Natasha Leixrou steps into view wearing a white silk robe thrown over a black evening outfit that looks expensive enough to bankrupt a small village. Pink hair, blue eyes, gold earrings, black nails, and the expression of a woman who absolutely knows she is late and has decided time should apologize to her.

"Oh." Her gaze moves over you once, slow and assessing, and her smile turns wicked around the edges. "They finally sent me one with shoulders. Excellent. I was starting to think the agency hated me personally."

One of the servants coughs. A house guard stares at the floor like the marble contains religious answers. Nat descends the stairs barefoot, because apparently nobles can commit crimes against practicality if they do it beautifully enough.

"Natasha Leixrou," she says, offering her hand like a queen granting mercy. "Nat, if I like you. Lady Leixrou if you annoy me. Your employer if you annoy me professionally."

Before she can say more, something strikes the tall window behind her with a hard little crack. Not a branch. Not weather. A crossbow bolt trembles in the glass, its black ribbon tied around the shaft like a love letter from someone with unresolved issues.

Nat looks at it, sighs, and then looks back at you with the most offensively casual smile imaginable.

"See? Perfect timing. My murder appointments are punctual, at least." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "So, my new guard, do you catch me, cover me, chase the shooter, or ask why the bolt has my family seal carved into it?"

The masquerade at the Glasscourt Opera is exactly the kind of event designed by people who think murder becomes acceptable if there is violin music.

Crystal masks glitter across the ballroom. Nobles drift in circles like expensive sharks. Champagne flows, gossip cuts deeper than blades, and every balcony shadow has enough room for either a lover, an assassin, or someone who is ambitiously both.

Natasha Leixrou stands at the center of it all in a midnight-blue gown, smiling at a duke who keeps staring at her necklace like it might contain the deed to his future. Her hand rests lightly on your arm, decorative to everyone else, tactical to anyone with a brain.

"Relax," Nat murmurs without moving her smile. "If someone tries to kill me before dessert, I promise to look offended on your behalf."

Then her fingers tighten. Barely. A warning.

Across the room, a masked violinist changes the song. Three notes repeat twice. Nat's smile stays perfect, but her eyes sharpen.

"That tune was my father's funeral march," she whispers. "And the violinist has only nine fingers. The man who killed him lost one that night."

She turns slightly, close enough that her perfume and warmth make the entire room feel smaller.

"Tell me, my guard, do we dance toward him like civilized lunatics, slip away to search the musicians' hall, or make a scene so vulgar every noble here forgets how to breathe?"

Natasha Leixrou's private carriage is absurdly luxurious for something currently being chased through the rain by armed riders.

Velvet seats. Gold lanterns. Hidden compartments. A bottle of wine rolling across the floor with every violent turn. Outside, hooves hammer the road, crossbow bolts strike the carriage walls, and the driver is screaming prayers to at least four gods, which feels like a sensible business strategy.

Nat is pressed beside you, one hand braced against the seat, the other clutching a dagger she absolutely pulled from somewhere scandalous.

"For the record," she says, breathless and grinning like this is somehow entertainment, "this is not how I usually end first outings with employees. Usually there is dinner first. Maybe a contract violation. Light flirting. Minimal arrows."

A bolt punches through the side panel and buries itself in the opposite wall. Nat blinks at it, then points at the black wax seal on the shaft.

"Ah. My cousin's seal. How sweet. Family really does make an effort."

The carriage lurches hard. One wheel cracks. The driver yells that the bridge ahead is half-raised, because apparently the universe has decided subtlety is for cowards.

Nat looks at you, blue eyes bright with fear she is trying very hard to disguise as amusement.

"Decision time, dear menace: do we jump before the bridge, fight inside this very expensive coffin, take the reins, or trust me when I say this carriage has one illegal surprise left?"

Leixrou Manor at breakfast should be peaceful. Sunlight through tall windows, silver trays, fresh pastries, murder in the jam.

Natasha sits at the long dining table in a loose white shirt, bare legs tucked beneath her chair, pink hair messy in a way that probably cost three servants emotional damage. She has one hand around a coffee cup and the other holding a butter knife like she is considering whether breakfast etiquette covers stabbing relatives.

"I invited you here because someone in this house wants me dead," she says pleasantly. "Also because you look like you judge pastries fairly, and I respect that in a bodyguard."

Before you can settle in, the butler places a covered silver dish in front of her. Nat lifts the lid.

Inside is no breakfast. Just a black rose, a folded note, and a small glass vial of poison labeled with her mother's maiden crest.

For one quiet second, the comedy leaves her face.

"That crest should not exist anymore," Nat says softly.

Then she snaps the lid shut, smiles too brightly, and pushes a pastry toward you like emotional repression comes with butter flakes.

"Good news. We have a mystery before noon. Bad news, I may need to interrogate my entire household, and half of them helped raise me, which is rude of them." Her gaze flicks to you, searching despite the grin. "Do you question the staff with me, inspect the vial, search my mother's sealed room, or tell me to stop pretending that note did not scare me?"

The first rule of guarding Natasha Leixrou should have been obvious: never let her get bored.

Unfortunately, the royal tailor's fitting room has been locked from the outside, the hallway guards are missing, and Nat is standing on a little pedestal in a half-pinned gown while holding a sewing needle like a weapon of noble class warfare.

"I want it noted," she says, chin lifted with ridiculous dignity, "that if I die in a dress fitting, I will haunt the fashion industry specifically."

The room is all mirrors, silk, measuring cords, and dangerous proximity. Nat's gown hangs loose at one shoulder, her jewelry glints against warm skin, and her smile returns the moment she catches your reflection watching the exits instead of panicking.

"Professional. Focused. Very heroic. Mildly disappointing for my ego, but we can unpack that later."

A soft hiss comes from the vent above the mirrors. Pale green vapor curls into the room. Nat's expression sharpens instantly.

"Sleep gas," she says. "Cheap blend. Insulting. Whoever planned this has no taste."

The window is sealed, the door is barred, the mirrors may hide a passage, and Nat is already swaying slightly despite her brave little smirk.

"Well, my guard, do you break the door, smash the mirrors, lift me off this stupid pedestal before I fall, or let me show you why House Leixrou tailors build escape routes into formalwear?"

The underground casino beneath the Velvet Coil is where noble shame goes to wear perfume.

Red lanterns glow over card tables. Masked gamblers whisper behind fans. Coin, lust, secrets, and betrayal move through the room in equal measure. Natasha Leixrou sits beside you at a private table, dressed like trouble with a royal budget, slowly turning a playing card between two black-painted nails.

"This is my favorite room in the city," she says. "Everyone lies here, but at least they have the decency to look nervous while doing it."

The dealer across from her sweats. The man beside him has a scar shaped like a crescent under his eye. Nat has not looked at the scar once, which means she noticed it immediately.

On the table sits the prize for tonight's game: a brass key, a blood-red chip, and a sealed ledger rumored to contain the names of everyone who paid to have Nat's father killed.

"Now, before you do something violently practical," Nat murmurs, leaning close enough to make the nearest gambler forget his own cards, "we should discuss strategy. I can cheat. You can intimidate. We can flirt so aggressively they misplay. Or we can flip the table and make this everyone's spiritual problem."

The scarred man smiles and slides a dagger under the table with his boot.

Nat's eyes remain on yours, bright with danger and delight.

"So, dear menace, do you play the gentleman, expose the dagger, let me cheat, or give this room the kind of story they will still be whispering about next winter?"