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It takes the palace guards almost an hour to flag their unexpected guest.
The first domino falls the moment Cassian’s earpiece comes crackling to life. In his ear, a nervous voice reports an angry duchess is at the door. A duchess that, according to their guest list, should already be inside.
It takes Cassian a few taps on his phone to ascertain that the furiously embarrassed, red-faced woman is exactly who she claims to be. However, it takes the four doormen much, much longer to recall what the other duchess had looked like.
Worse, when they finally think they recall, not a single description he is given matches another. The woman they seek is either of average height or shorter than average. She’s got hair that’s black, blonde, or brown, and her age falls somewhere between twenty-one and the late thirties.
The only thing they can all agree on is, that whoever she was, she had a rather intense presence about her.
Instead of screaming, breaking phones, or ringing the necks of the doormen, Cassian takes a deep breath and excuses himself to start looping the rest of the palace in on what very, very little they know.
After a moment of debating, he also authorizes backup to be called in.
It's not like this is a dinner party, after all. This is Leia's fucking coronation. Mistakes like this aren't supposed to happen because these kinds of mistakes are exactly what everyone from the local police to Draven's men have worked so tirelessly to try to prevent for the last six months.
It takes longer than he'd like to pick out who doesn't belong, but once Cassian gets eyes on her, a good portion of his rage over their incompetency fades away. As much as he’s loath to admit it, he understands why the doormen never stood a chance.
The training the guards get is heavily focused on looking out for potential danger and potential fanaticism. They're taught to look for people whose clothes are all wrong, whose eyes linger on security features, and who look too rough for the circles Leia moves in.
Similarly, they keep a weathered eye out for the kind of people who might be trying to discreetly film their surroundings, the kind of people who want to belong a little too badly.
The woman he finds is neither of those things. Instead, she reeks of the kind of constant, inherent privilege that is required to get away with the way she is acting. She doesn't bother hiding her disdain, content enough to cast an apathetic glance around the room, a frown on her face that implies she feels that being invited to a coronation is a chore.
More and more warning bells start going off in his head the closer Cassian gets to her, the better he sees the deeply calculated presentation she's putting forward. The way her hair is coiffed just so. Her dress, while a perfect example of dignified, modest elegance, is matched with a pair of gloves and heels that quietly suggest that knowing her better might involve a safeword. Even her smile, bored though it is, is curled up at the perfect angle to let you project your own assumptions onto her.
The false duchess is meticulously put together in a way that allows her to become whatever you want to see.
If you want her to be a member of the royal family, she can be.
If you want her to be a high-end escort or someone who can talk to you at length about the current market returns on your investments, Cassian has no doubt she'll convince you you’re correct.
He has no doubt, either, that nothing about her is as benign as she'd like to appear.
Hanging back, he takes a moment to observe from a closer vantage point as he radios back to Kay with an update. Leaning against the nearest pillar, he alternates between placating Kay's desire to send in the military and watching as their intruder scans the room with intent. It's only then he sees the slip, and catches the moment where a pampered duchess disappears and something much more dangerous inhabits her skin.
With a quick frown and an anxious roll of her shoulders, that woman is once more smothered as the duchess raises her hand, sending a cloying smile across the room.
Whatever unfortunate soul she has decided will be her prey tonight, Cassian suspects, has been spotted.
He moves, keeping to the shadows, as he trails after her as she works her way to her destination.
Soon enough, however, it's clear it's not a destination so much as the start of a social speed run.
Blending into the background, he watches as she nurses at a flute that never seems to empty no matter how often it touches her lips.
Occasionally her flute gets strategically set down, out of sight just long enough for someone nearby to realize the false duchess doesn't have a drink and then set out to remedy that.
It's like watching a chess game, the way she enamors those around her until they can't wait to show her off.
The moment that happens, she's got an in. Some idiot willing enough to introduce her to others without knowing a single thing about her. Willing to offer her identity as an extension of their own she moves fluidly through the room in a way most here can't, moving from the bustling center to the more elusive corners where the real power clusters.
It starts with a prince of a neighboring country and moves quickly on to a man who supplies half the globe with weapons. From there, she smiles shyly at a man who calls himself a banker, humble enough to not bother disclosing that's like comparing a housecat to a tiger. The man before her is someone whose very mood is reflected in the strength of whatever currency he’s currently manipulating. From there, she moves on from the banker and finally seems to settle her attention, to Cassian's shock, on a bored widower with a stain on his shirt.
It’s an unusual progression, to say the least, but Cassian recognizes the gleam in her eye well enough to know whatever this she is after, the widower has access to it.
But, not a prince.
Not a glorified warlord.
Not even the shadow king of global currencies.
It’s a curious enough idea. One that has Cassian radioing back to the control room, requesting a pause on the plan he’d set in motion moments before with the intent of seeing her carefully and more importantly quietly shuffled from the ballroom and into a holding room.
It's an invaluable skill to swim so smoothly in the waters she's venturing into, to never be the one extending their hand or name because others are all too willing to do it on your behalf.
Despite her increasing social mobility, she doesn’t leave the side of the widower. Chewie’s face looks more alive than Cassian has seen him look in years. The recently taciturn man now talking a mile a minute, wrinkled hands gesticulating as Cassian’s target smiles fondly up at him.
If he was a betting man, Cassian would wager she's slid into a filial character when faced with Chewie. A woman who is admiring and adoring, but ultimately chaste in her every interaction.
He's begrudgingly impressed, more so when her eyes leave Chewie's and turn to meet with Cassian's with unerring accuracy.
Lifting her flute to her lips, she sends him a wink as she pretends to take yet another drink.
To Cassian’s left, there's a shout. The sound of glass breaking.
He knows it's a mistake the moment his head turns, and despite an effort to remedy his follow, he’s too late. When he looks back to where she was, Chewie is standing there, all alone for the first time in an hour, left only with the hint of red lipstick on his cheek and a content expression on his face as he searches the crowd.
Oddly, the old man’s eyes light up as soon as he spots Cassian. Eagerly, Chewie is suddenly barreling his way through a crowd that's still rubbernecking the server whose tray was dropped.
"You're a fool, young man,” Chewie says by way of greeting. "You had that poor girl waiting all night for you to make your move and you never did. You're lucky I was there and saw the looks you were giving her.”
Cassian blinks, a terrible sinking sensation settling into his stomach as he takes in what was just said. He’s still trying to figure make any sense of the mess his own curiosity and Chewie's attempts to 'help' got him into when he realizes his phone is buzzing away inside his jacket pocket.
“Chewie, what did you tell her?" he presses, worried he knows the answer and feeling a sense of dread take hold of his chest at the idea of explaining to Draven that yes, he had eyes on their party crasher for almost an hour and did nothing about it, only to have her vanish, and now, this.
Whatever this is.
"I gave her your number," Chewie says, a heavy hand landing on Cassian’s shoulder. “Listen, women like that don’t grow on trees, take it from -“
"I need to go," Cassian says, unable and unwilling to deal with that aspect of a now much more complicated problem.
Blindly, he makes his way past the guests, and the guards, until he's much deeper inside the palace, closer to the command center where Draven will undoubtedly be.
Despite the radio in his hand, it stays silent.
He knows better. Knows he needs to report this.
Hell, he has to report this before it gets messier.
In his hand, a familiar buzzing starts up once again.
He stares down at the screen, his mouth going dry as he unlocks it.
Waiting for him are two mixed texts, both from the same unknown number.
Great.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
The amount of paperwork this day will involve seems to be growing exponentially.
Scowling, Cassian swipes into the command center with his badge as he unlocks his phone to see what bullshit he has to deal with now - only to promptly trip over his own feet when he opens the message, catching himself at the last moment.
Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, hoping whatever deity out there might care enough to do him a solid and make it all go away.
He cracks open an eye, peering back down at his phone.
A phone that hasn't magically been purged of the neck-down photo of a woman wearing a painfully familiar necklace, earrings, and nothing else.
He doesn't need to look twice to know that she's wearing a necklace that Leia was supposed to wear today.
A necklace he had six of their best men escort to Leia’s room from the treasury where the rest of Queen Padme's jewels were stored.
With gritted teeth, he swipes up to see the first message.
It’s a shame you’re in the pocket of the crown. I wouldn’t have minded stealing you too.
Cassian knows better than to reply.
There’s a point somewhere between the third and fifth time he has to type up a report about how yes, he saw her, yes, he lost her, and yes, then the jewel thief sent him a topless photo, where Cassian goes numb. He loses all sense of ego or shame at discussing things like trying to extrapolate information about the identity of a woman based on a photo of her breasts.
It is, as Melshi puts it, a very fucked up version of Cinderella where half the Royal Guard is trying to figure out how to identify the mystery woman by her breasts alone.
Cassian leaves as soon as he can afford to, heading immediately to the nearest pub, and wondering just how much he'll need to drink to forget today.
Which is, naturally, the moment their mystery woman slides onto the stool next to Cassian, ordering her drink with the type of confidence that would make someone who hadn’t already been bested by her once feel like they might be able to get the upper hand.
Cassian knows better.
“Would you believe me if I told you I came in peace?”
Contemplating the rest of the liquid in his glass, he finally gives into the impulse and throws it all back.
“Not particularly, no.”
She hums distractedly, seemingly more concerned with raising her hand to get the bartender's attention. With a smile, she points to Cassian's drink before holding up two finders. The two of them watch, silently as the drinks are made, and slid onto the bar before them. She nods her thanks to the bartender before turning her attention back to Cassian, looking him over as she sips from her glass, a speculative look in her eyes.
“Did you get to keep your phone?”
Cassian sends her a poisoned look. Not only did he not get to keep it, he gets to replace it on his own dime.
She laughs, happy and bright.
Much like it had in the ballroom, things get a little out of hand.
Somewhere between her ordering a second round and him closing out his tab, her thigh ends up being pressed against his. Somewhere between her staring at his lips and wrapping her fingers around his tie to pull him closer, he ends up resigned to what he knows is coming.
Resigned, he reflects, licking his lips and tasting whiskey, might not be the right word for this.
He wakes in his house, in a bed significantly emptier than it had been earlier that night.
Reality comes for him like a sledgehammer, actions he knows can't be undone already curdling away in his stomach. Right up until he reaches out blindly, slapping at his alarm clock to silence it, only to find something cold and hard in his way.
Blinking open bleary eyes, he is more than a little surprised to find Queen Padme's missing necklace draped over his alarm clock.
Under the heavy necklace is a piece of junk mail, repurposed to deliver a message written in a cramped scrawl of letters.
I'm keeping the bracelet but I'm willing to let you earn back the rest. Same place next week?