When you share a bed with a man you can't trust, you learn to sleep with one eye open.
That morning, Killian left before sunrise.
No goodbye. No note. Just the soft click of the suite door as it closed behind him, and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the pillow like a warning.
I waited exactly ten minutes.
Not because I was afraid he'd come back.
But because I wasn't sure what I'd do if he did.
Now I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, robe loose at the collar, heart hammering like a lie caught mid-sentence.
I stare at his suitcase.
It's black. Military-grade. Locked with a biometric clasp he thinks I haven't noticed.
But I have.
I've noticed everything.
His rigid bedtime.
The knife under his pillow.
The way he never lets me walk behind him.
And more than anything, I've noticed how often he lies without moving his lips.
I walk to the suitcase.
I kneel beside it.
My fingers tremble, just a little.
"Don't open it," my better judgment whispers.
But I haven't listened to her in years.
I press my thumb against the latch.
It doesn't open.
So I press his.
The fingerprint I lifted from his whiskey glass last night — smudged perfectly onto a piece of tape.
The light blinks green.
Click.
The lid lifts.
Inside, everything is folded with terrifying precision.
A tactical vest.
A phone I've never seen him use.
A black pistol. No serial number.
A metal tin with surgical gloves, a burner SIM, and a coin from some foreign military unit I don't recognize.
And beneath all of it—
An envelope.
My name is handwritten on the front.
Not Phoebe Thorne.
Not Mrs. Blackwood.
Just PHEOBE, in block letters, all caps.
I pick it up.
It's heavier than it looks.
I slide the flap open.
Inside: a single, slim file folder, wrapped in a red band that says OPERATION WHITE DOVE.
I hesitate.
Then open it.
My face stares back at me.
Passport photo. Surveillance stills. Timeline charts. Psychological profile. Known associates. Medical history. Allegiances: Unknown. High-risk asset.
I flip the page.
There's a bullet-point list titled:
OBJECTIVES: PHEOBE THORNE
Prevent subject from establishing independent political leverage.
Infiltrate emotional circle (code: "Killian").
Neutralize external threats via strategic proximity.
Monitor and report daily behavioral fluctuations.
Eliminate asset if compromised.
My hands go cold.
There's a picture clipped to the final page.
It's me.
Standing in a hallway.
Talking to Jackson.
But this isn't from any paparazzi or tabloid.
This photo is from inside the White House.
From before any scandal. Before Killian was even assigned to me — or so I thought.
Which means…
He was never just assigned to protect me.
He was part of the trap.
I stand. The folder clutched in my hand.
I walk to the mirror across the room — gold-framed, taller than I am, and more honest than anyone in my life.
I look at myself.
Really look.
This woman in the reflection — bare-faced, robe loose, hair falling around her shoulders — I barely know her.
Her eyes are hard.
Her lips are tight.
She's not afraid.
She's something worse.
She's betrayed.
I want to cry.
But tears feel too soft for this.
I want to scream.
But sound won't save me now.
So I do the only thing I can.
I stare at the woman in the mirror until I believe she's real again.
And then I hear the door click.
Footsteps.
Low. Heavy. Controlled.
I turn slowly.
Killian stands in the entryway.
And in my hand is the file with my name on it.
His eyes land on it.
Freeze.
I don't say a word.
Neither does he.
For a long, blistering moment, we just look at each other — like enemies in a ceasefire, knowing the next move will draw blood.
He takes one step toward me.
I raise the folder.
"Tell me this isn't what it looks like," I say, voice sharp.
He doesn't flinch.
"Tell me I wasn't your mission."
He doesn't speak.
And that, more than anything, is an answer.
My voice breaks. Just once.
"You were watching me before the scandal. Before Alyssa. Before the fake engagement."
"I had orders."
"And you followed them?"
His jaw clenches. "I didn't know everything at first."
"Oh, so you figured it out after they ordered you to eliminate me if I went rogue?"
His silence is a weapon.
I step forward.
"The man who kissed my cheek in front of five hundred cameras — who slept beside me like I was the only safe thing in a burning world — was that you, Killian?"
His voice is gravel. Low. Raw.
"It was me."
"And this?" I shove the file toward him. "Was this you too?"
He looks at it.
Then at me.
And for the first time since I met him, he looks ashamed.
"I tried to get reassigned," he says.
That makes me laugh. Bitter. Ugly.
"Reassigned? From what, loving me or killing me?"
His voice drops. "Phoebe—"
"Don't. Don't say my name like it means something."
"I didn't want this."
"You're right. You didn't. You just followed orders and lied to my face and slept ten inches away from me while reporting my heart rate to your handler."
His expression darkens.
"I stopped reporting."
I freeze.
"What?"
He steps closer. Slow. Careful.
"I stopped sending them updates after the gala."
"Why?"
"Because you were no longer the target."
I stare.
"What changed?"
"You changed," he says.
I don't want to believe him.
But the way he says it — like it hurts to say — pulls at something deep and dangerous inside me.
He reaches for the folder.
I let him take it.
He opens to the last page.
Pulls out a photo I hadn't seen before.
It's me.
Sleeping.
From the honeymoon suite.
His voice is a whisper.
"They sent this two nights ago. With a note."
He hands me the note.
It's typed.
She's already yours. Finish it.
My stomach flips.
"They want me dead."
He doesn't deny it.
"I was never supposed to survive this marriage, was I?"
"No," he says. "But I never planned to finish the mission."
"Then what was your plan?"
His eyes lock on mine.
And for the first time, I see it.
Not the soldier.
Not the weapon.
Not the liar.
Just a man.
Falling.
"I didn't have one," he whispers. "Until you."
The room pulses with something unspeakable.
I feel it in my chest. My throat. My spine.
The horrible, terrifying truth.
I still want him.
Even now.
Even after this.
That's what makes me dangerous.
Not the secrets.
Not the lies.
But the fact that part of me still believes he's the only man who would burn the world down to protect me.
The silence breaks when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Unknown number.
One message.
"Run."
Killian sees it.
Grabs his jacket. "We have to go."
"Where?"
"Anywhere they can't find us."
"And if they do?"
His eyes narrow.
"They won't."
"Because you're going to protect me?"
He nods.
"No," I say, stepping closer, heart pounding. "Not like before. Not because it's your job. Not because they ordered you to. If we do this—"
"I'm in."
"I didn't finish—"
"You didn't have to."
We stare at each other.
And for the first time…
He kisses me.
Hard.
Real.
Nothing about it is soft.
Everything about it is dangerous.
And then—
Sirens.
Far off.
Too far to be coincidence.
Killian pulls away, grabs the gun, shoves the file into a duffel, and tosses me my shoes.
"Run now. Or die here."
I don't think.
I just run.