His silence says everything.
And yet I keep asking.
"Did you marry me to protect me…"
I pause.
Let it twist in the air like smoke.
"…or to finish the job?"
He doesn't move.
Doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe.
Just stands there in the kitchen, the knife still in his hand, blade coated with avocado and indifference.
I wait.
Because silence from Killian Cross isn't emptiness.
It's a verdict.
But tonight, it sounds like something worse.
An echo of guilt.
Or maybe restraint.
I should've walked away the second I found the folder.
I should've packed a bag, burned the fake marriage certificate, and gone screaming into the arms of whatever press circus wanted a front-page story.
But I didn't.
Because I'm not stupid anymore.
And I know how this city works.
Lies buy protection.
Truth gets you buried.
And me?
I'm not ready to be buried yet.
Killian sets the knife down on the counter, slow and deliberate.
Like he's defusing a bomb that might still go off.
Maybe I am the bomb.
He turns to me, and for a second, I see something raw flicker across his face — not fear, but recognition. Like he finally sees me not as an assignment, not as a pawn, but as something else.
Something unpredictable.
He doesn't answer my question.
Instead, he asks, "What do you think?"
I cross my arms. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make me guess whether I'm your wife or your target."
His jaw tenses.
So I push harder.
"Because I'm tired, Killian. I'm tired of waking up and wondering if I'll find a wire under the bed or a bullet in my coffee."
He steps closer. "You think I'd kill you with coffee?"
"I think you're trained not to make a mess."
He laughs. Just once. Low and bitter.
Then he leans in, hands braced on either side of the counter. "If I wanted you dead, Pheobe, you'd be dead."
I don't flinch.
"That's not a denial."
He meets my eyes. "That's a promise."
We stare at each other across three feet of marble and five years of lies.
The house is too quiet. The lights too dim. Everything feels suspended, like we're trapped inside a moment that won't let us leave until someone breaks.
He's not breaking.
So I do.
"Just tell me," I whisper. "Did you ever choose this?"
Killian looks away.
And that hurts more than a bullet.
The next morning, there's a new ring on the table.
Not a diamond.
Not gold.
It's matte black, military-grade. Cold to the touch, like it's been dipped in something darker than metal.
There's an inscription inside the band.
A serial number.
I slide it on.
It fits perfectly.
Killian doesn't say a word as I do it.
He just watches me from across the room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"Why the upgrade?" I ask.
He nods toward the ring. "That one's trace-proof. Built-in signal disruptor. You'll need it."
"For what?"
But he's already walking away.
I don't follow him.
Instead, I go to the window and stare at the city like it owes me something.
Answers. Closure. Revenge.
All three, maybe.
My fingers twist the ring.
It's heavier than it looks.
Like it's carrying a secret I haven't unlocked yet.
Just like Killian.
Just like our entire marriage.
Fake. Real. Somewhere in between.
Later that day, I visit Eva — our hacker in lace and combat boots.
She takes one look at the ring and whistles.
"Girl, do you know what this is?"
"No. But I'm guessing you do."
She slides her glasses on and grabs a scanner.
The ring pulses once, then flashes a tiny green light.
"Military-issue," she mutters. "Obsolete in most of the world, but not in Aurelia. Embedded micro-sensor, one-way encryption, triple-scrambled uplink."
"In English?"
"It's not just a ring." She looks at me. "It's a key."
I blink. "To what?"
"Killian's past. Maybe yours too."
My throat goes dry.
Eva leans in. "Whatever he's not telling you… this ring's part of it."
I go back to the penthouse.
I don't knock.
Just walk in like I own the place.
Because for all intents and purposes — I do. Or at least the fiction of it. The fantasy we're both clinging to like it might hold us together long enough to survive whatever's coming.
Killian's sitting in the corner, shirt half-unbuttoned, gun holstered loosely at his side like he wants me to notice it.
I do.
"Where did this ring come from?" I ask.
He doesn't look up.
"You already scanned it. You know what it does."
"Tell me why you gave it to me."
He lifts his eyes to mine.
And for once, he doesn't look like a soldier.
He looks like a man.
"Because if I die before this is over, that ring will unlock the vault beneath the West Wing. You'll find everything there."
My heart stutters.
"What's everything?"
"Proof."
"Of what?"
Killian doesn't answer.
Of course he doesn't.
That night, we sleep in the same bed but not together.
His back faces me.
Mine faces the door.
Our bodies are close enough to touch but feel oceans apart.
I lie awake for hours, staring at the dark, one thought screaming louder than the silence between us:
What if this marriage was always about getting close enough to destroy each other?
At 3:42 a.m., I whisper into the dark:
"Was any of it real?"
Killian doesn't move.
So I whisper it again.
"Did you ever love me?"
He breathes in.
Breathes out.
And says nothing.