Well-- he certainly didn't mince words. Blind, deaf, and moronic, huh? Despite herself, a pleased smirk lit Mia's lips. It wasn't every day that incredibly wealthy, talented, and famous musicians called mere Aurors [I]amazing[/I]. It was even more impressive that he had deigned that upon what he believed to be a lowly Patrol Officer, not a woman tasked with killing him. She couldn't forget that-- she had to keep that close to her heart. Even though he'd clearly eased up on his animal magnetism, it was still difficult to keep her focus. Mia ignored the implications of that. She was simply playing a part. She had to get him to trust her, had to get his guard down. She ignored the uncomfortable twinge in her gut. He was a vampire, and vampires were dangerous. Even if Jett seemed, for the most part, like a relatively normal man just trying to navigate the tumultuous waters of fame. [i]Dangerous[/I], she reminded herself, a mantra that didn't quite sit well with her.

Mia listened attentively as he divulged what seemed to be a touch of honesty himself. The wine sat untouched as she studied him, rather fascinated. A small part of her, the poor, angry girl who'd grown up in the ghetto, was in disbelief. He came from money, but he'd forged out on his own. He could have lost everything, could have ended up in the gutter with a gamble like that, how [i]stupid[/I]-- except, he hadn't failed. His charisma was supernatural, sure, and maybe even his talent was, but he had taken a huge risk. She wasn't sure if she was impressed or contemptuous. Perhaps he'd been naïve, or simply too proud to be sensible, but at the end of the day, he'd made a name for himself and achieved glory. She ignored the petty, jealous voice, squashing it viciously. She wasn't fourteen anymore. The cards had been stacked in his favour, but she couldn't blame him for taking advantage of them. Mia Ramirez had been a Slytherin, after all, and she understood the value of using every edge at her disposal.

"A little spoiled, at first," she agreed finally, taking a sip of her wine, marveling at the play of flavours dancing across her tongue. "But I don't see anything wrong in that. We all have to become our own people at some point. It's clear you've been quite successful at carving out your own path. You could have sat back and indulged all your life without ever lifting a finger. That's a tempting offer. You're to be commended for earning your success, I think."

He brought up her exes, and her hand tightened reflexively on her wine glass, her other hand moving to her wand. The glass snapped beneath the pressure and she swore rapidly in Spanish and English, leaping to her feet, desperate to save her dress. She made good money, but not such good money that ruining a designer gown wasn't horrifying to imagine. Mia began rushing apologies, moving to clean up the mess, cheeks burning with shame. It was stupid. Somehow, hearing him say it like that, ‘chasing me down after I sleep’, had triggered her fight or flight instinct. Flashes of memory—her bedroom, his hands at her throat, her wand just out of reach, the sting of curses, the desperate bid for survival, her thumbs in his eyes, his foot stomping on her rib cage, the curious wheeze of bone through lung, Cohen’s bloodied face swimming in the glare of St. Mungo’s lights, the assurances of Azkaban, the whispers on the grapevine that he’d bribed his way out—Merlin, she’d never felt so pathetic before in her life. [i]Some Auror[/i], her ego whispered contemptuously. Mia gripped the napkin she’d tried to clean the mess up with tightly, willing herself calm. Everything would be fine. She’d moved somewhere unplottable and layered every inch of her flat with protective spells. She still had a week (no, five days now), until he got out. He’d caught her off guard last time. She wouldn’t be so stupid this time. Hell, even this undercover gig in the Patrol would help protect her. He wouldn’t find her. Mia methodically swept the shattered glass into the napkin, trying to find calm in the motion. She needed air, needed to get away, but she had work to do—

“I’m sorry, I’m such a brute,” she forced out the charming laugh, hated how hollow it sounded, “You can see why I don’t go to fancy places. I always break something expensive.”
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