A Red Flag In Stilettos - by Emilia's Pen

(This story is based on a movie I watched and a book I read) The city hummed with its usual chaos, neon lights flickering like a pulse against the night sky. I was at The Velvet Room, a swanky downtown bar where the drinks cost more than my rent and the clientele wore their egos like designer coats. I wasn’t here for the overpriced martinis. I was tailing someone—a job, not a hobby. My client, a nervous tech mogul named Victor, had hired me to dig into his new girlfriend, Elise. “She’s too perfect,” he’d said, fidgeting with his Rolex. “Something’s off. Find it.” I spotted her the moment she walked in. Elise. A vision in a crimson dress that hugged her curves like it was painted on, her stilettos clicking on the polished floor like a metronome of trouble. Heads turned, conversations paused, and the air seemed to tighten around her. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew every eye was hers to command. Red flag number one: nobody owns a room like that unless they’ve practiced.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/Screenshot_20250919-170136.jpg"/>I sipped my soda water, blending into the crowd at the bar, my notebook tucked into my jacket. Elise slid into a booth across from a man I didn’t recognize—definitely not Victor. The guy was all sharp angles, slick hair, and a suit that screamed old money. They leaned in close, her laugh cutting through the jazz like a knife. I snapped a discreet photo with my phone, the flash off, and zoomed in. Her hand rested on his, just a second too long. Red flag number two. Victor had given me the basics: Elise was a freelance art curator, 32, no family ties, a penthouse in the arts district. Charming, witty, and a little mysterious. “She’s like a dream,” he’d said, but his eyes screamed nightmare. My first pass on her background turned up clean—too clean. No social media footprint, no public records beyond a few curated articles about gallery openings. It was like she’d been airbrushed into existence. Red flag number three. I edged closer to their booth, pretending to check my phone. Her voice was low, velvet-smooth, but I caught fragments. “The deal’s set… Victor’s distracted… two weeks.” The man nodded, slipping her a small envelope. My gut twisted. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a lover’s rendezvous. I snapped another photo, then retreated to the bar, my mind racing. Blackmail? Corporate espionage? Victor’s company was sitting on a prototype AI chip worth billions. Elise had access to his life—his home, his secrets. I tailed her for three more days. She met the same man twice, always in public, always with that envelope exchange. I dug deeper, calling in favors from a hacker friend, Lila. She found a ghost trail: Elise’s real name was Elena Markov, linked to a string of aliases across Europe. Art curator? Try high-end grifter. She’d cozy up to rich men, siphon their secrets, and vanish. Her stilettos weren’t just fashion—they were her getaway car. I met Victor at a diner, sliding a folder across the sticky table. Photos, transcripts, Lila’s report. His face crumpled as he read. “She said she loved me,” he whispered. I didn’t sugarcoat it. “She loves your chip, Victor. She’s working with someone—probably to sell your prototype. Dump her. Now.” He did. Elise disappeared the next day, her penthouse empty, her phone dead. Victor’s company locked down the prototype, and the man in the suit? Gone, too. I never found out who he was. But I kept one of those photos, the one where Elise’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. A reminder: red flags don’t always wave—they click across the floor, sharp and deliberate, in stilettos.

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