POV: Phoebe Thorne
If regret had a ringtone, it would be the sound that split through Safe House 9's thick mountain silence at exactly 3:04 a.m.
I was sitting on the kitchen counter, bare-legged, wearing one of Grim's old black shirts that still smelled like danger and gunpowder. The clock blinked red like an open wound. And my thumb hovered over the screen as the name lit up:
Jackson Harrington.
The name alone felt like a slap.
Or a memory I hadn't given permission to resurface.
He was supposed to be in D.C. Or London. Or buried under political ambition and glossy-haired assistants. He was not supposed to be calling me.
And he was definitely not supposed to be standing on the porch when I opened the door.
My heart stopped.
It was raining. Hard. As if the sky itself wanted to drown whatever stupid thing was about to happen. Jackson's golden hair was soaked, clinging to his forehead, his navy coat plastered to his frame. His eyes were wild — that familiar mix of desperation and charm that once made girls faint in the Senate gallery.
He didn't say my name.
He didn't need to.
"Who let you in here?" I whispered. Not out of shock, but genuine confusion. "This place is off-grid. Military-secured. Not even the President knows I'm here."
He laughed, hoarse and bitter. "Phoebe, I made this place."
I blinked.
"I'm the one who picked the contractors. Back when your father still trusted me." His voice cracked a little. "Back when you did."
I didn't move.
He stepped forward. "I know about the headline."
"Everyone does."
He paused. "I know about him."
Of course. That's why he was really here. Not to apologize. Not to crawl back. But to size up the man in the shadows. The one whose name I hadn't even said out loud.
"You're late, Jackson," I said coolly, folding my arms. "Three months and one headline too late."
He gave me a look that could still unearth a shard of guilt from deep inside me. "I thought you needed space."
"I needed truth. You gave me politics."
"I gave you everything I could—"
"No," I snapped. "You gave my father everything he asked for. And you asked me to wait in the shadows. Like a mistress in a diamond cage."
His breath hitched. "You think that's what I wanted? You think I didn't fight for you?"
"You didn't fight hard enough."
Silence fell.
The rain poured harder. Somewhere upstairs, the floor creaked. Grim.
Jackson's eyes flicked toward the sound. "Is he here now?"
I didn't answer.
He didn't wait.
"I shouldn't have let them separate us," he said, stepping inside now. Dripping water onto the wooden floor like a storm I hadn't consented to. "I shouldn't have cared about the optics. But Phoebe, I—God, I still love you."
There it was.
The thing he always used like a grenade. Beautiful. Shiny. Lethal.
I looked at him, really looked, and tried to remember what it used to feel like when he said those words. Back when they tasted like strawberry wine and summer promises on the Capitol lawn.
But all I tasted now was ash.
"You're here because your power is slipping," I said coldly. "Because a headline you didn't control got ahead of your carefully curated narrative. And you realized the one girl who worshipped your potential doesn't anymore."
"That's not true."
"It is," another voice cut in.
We both turned.
Grim was leaning against the kitchen archway, barefoot and shirtless, a bandage stark against the muscle on his side. His presence was a storm in itself — unannounced, unshakable, and completely unapologetic.
He didn't look at me.
He only looked at Jackson like he was reading his obituary.
"I told you to stay out of this," I whispered.
"I didn't listen," Grim said, voice calm and cruel. "I don't like ghosts showing up where they're not wanted."
Jackson's jaw tightened. "You don't get to dictate who she sees."
Grim stepped forward, his gaze cold enough to freeze hell. "I do when she's under my protection."
"I'm not a hostage," I cut in sharply, stepping between them. "I'm not some possession you two get to argue over like a piece of political furniture."
They both froze.
And for a second, I hated them. Both of them. For different reasons. One for abandoning me to my father's schemes. The other for locking me in a safe house like a ticking time bomb he was too afraid to defuse.
I moved toward the door, my bare feet silent on the wood. I needed air. Rain. Anything but this testosterone-drenched battle for my dignity.
Jackson reached for me. "Phoebe—wait."
I stopped.
He was holding something.
A folder. Manila. Thick. Government seal half-ripped.
"I came because of this," he said. "Not the headline. Not jealousy."
He held it out. "It's about Grim."
My breath caught.
Grim didn't move.
I took the folder.
I shouldn't have.
I opened it.
And my world tilted.
Top page: CLASSIFIED DOSSIER – OPERATION BLACK CARD
Subject: Grim Alexander Knox
Aliases: Classified
Status: Disavowed Operative
Affiliations: Unknown
Loyalty: Questionable
Notes: "Former assassin embedded in Aurelia operations. Terminated ties with military intelligence. Current objective unclear. Suspected in death of Senator Alcott. Unstable."
My hands trembled.
I looked up. "Is this true?"
Grim didn't flinch. Didn't deny.
But the silence spoke louder than anything.
"You're not just a bodyguard," I whispered. "You're… you're Black Card."
"That file is incomplete," he said quietly. "Intentionally manipulated."
"Manipulated by who?"
"Your father."
Jackson swore. "Jesus. He knew? And still sent him to you?"
"That's not what happened," Grim snapped. "I took the contract to protect her from them."
I felt sick.
Everything was folding in on itself.
My fake engagement.
My real emotions.
The man I kissed.
The man I used to love.
"Phoebe," Jackson said softly. "Come back to D.C. with me. Let's fix this. We can make a public statement. We can spin this. Together."
I looked at Grim.
His eyes were unreadable. But his fists were clenched. Not out of jealousy — out of guilt.
"Leave," I told Jackson.
"What?"
"I said leave."
He stared like I'd just stabbed him.
"You're not the man I fell in love with," I said. "And I'm not the girl who would've followed you blindly."
His face crumbled.
And then he left.
The rain stopped an hour later.
But the silence didn't.
Grim stood across from me, watching me like I might implode.
I held the folder in my hands, burning with truth.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked.
"Because you deserved someone clean."
I gave a hollow laugh. "There's no such thing in Aurelia."
He stepped closer.
"I never lied about how I felt," he said.
"But you hid."
He didn't deny it.
I walked past him, toward the stairs. Toward a bed I suddenly wasn't sure I could sleep in anymore.
He caught my wrist. Gently.
"Phoebe," he whispered. "Tell me what to do."
I turned.
Looked up into the eyes of a man with a kill count.
And said, "Stay."
TO BE CONTINUED.