Outside, a sleek black Aston Martin Vanquish pulls to a stop beneath the hotel's canopy. The engine purrs once, twice, then falls silent.

Dawson watches from across the street, pressed into the shadows of a parked sedan. His window is cracked just enough to let in the humid June air, his eyes fixed on the driver's side door. Luke's voice crackles through his earpiece.

He'd prepared himself for a man.

The driver's door opens. A heel hits the pavement. Slim, strappy, gold. Followed by a leg that seems to go on forever beneath the hem of a deep emerald dress that catches the streetlight like liquid metal. The woman who unfolds herself from the car is nothing short of devastating. Dark hair swept into an elegant updo, a few loose strands framing high cheekbones and lips painted the color of ripe cherries. Her dress hugs every curve before falling to mid-thigh, simple but devastatingly effective.

She hands the keys to the valet with a smile that makes the young man forget how to breathe, then turns toward the hotel entrance.

Dawson's hand hovers over the door handle. For a moment, he forgets to speak.

That's not a man.

Her lips curl. A slow, knowing smile, like she's been expecting him all along.

Then she disappears through the gilded doors.