The necklace was a gift from my father.
Or so I thought.
He handed it to me the morning after the "wedding," still smelling like whiskey and control.
Said it was antique gold. Said it used to belong to my mother. Said it was important.
Important, my ass.
It was a tracking device.
A listening bug.
A leash.
And I've been wearing it around my neck like a loyal little show dog.
"Hold still," Killian mutters, tugging the chain from behind my neck. His fingers brush the base of my spine. I don't move.
I'm too busy trying not to explode.
He fiddles with the latch and finally breaks it free. The chain falls into his palm. He's already got a small black case open on the bathroom sink — tools gleaming under fluorescent light.
Killian's eyes narrow. "See that?"
He points at a tiny black dot tucked into the back of the locket, smaller than a grain of rice. It's barely visible, but I see it now.
And I feel sick.
I step back. My voice is low, dangerous.
"How long?"
"Hard to say." He lifts it with tweezers, turns it under the light. "Military-grade. New. Whoever planted this wasn't improvising. This was planned."
"By who?" I hiss. "My father?"
He gives me a look.
"Or someone closer," he says.
The words hang between us like a noose.
Closer.
The West Wing.
His eyes shift to mine, unreadable. "You've been wearing it in every room. Every conversation. Every fight."
"And every kiss," I add bitterly.
Killian looks away.
We dismantle it.
Piece by piece.
Killian disassembles the locket like he's gutting something alive. His jaw is tight, mechanical. There's blood under his fingernails — from the cut on his palm he got while trying to pry the seal.
He doesn't seem to notice.
But I do.
I always do.
The device is wired to transmit data in pulses. Timed recordings. It doesn't need to be live. It just needs to get close enough to someone with clearance, and then — boom. Upload. Leak. Ruin.
Everything I've said in the past 72 hours could already be on someone's hard drive.
I pace the room while he works.
My thoughts spiral in circles. Who planted it? Who knew about the necklace? My father? His Chief of Staff? Jackson?
Jackson.
I clench my fists.
He was too smug at the gala. Too controlled when Alyssa kissed him. He wanted to get caught.
Was this his way of planting seeds of doubt in me? Or was it deeper than that?
Killian finally speaks. "I can trace the last signal. Might take time."
"Do it."
"I'll need your phone."
I hesitate. "Why?"
He lifts a brow. "Because if this necklace was bugged, your phone is already compromised."
I hand it over.
He powers it down and drops it into a black signal-blocking pouch, zipping it shut.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now?" His eyes flick to the window. "We treat every room like it has ears. We trust no one."
He pauses.
"Not even each other."
That night, I sleep with the locket placed on the dresser — chain coiled like a snake, the tiny mic dead and silent, but still watching me in my mind.
I stare at it in the dark.
Wondering how long I've been performing in a show I didn't know was being recorded.
Morning.
Eva calls through the encrypted line Killian rerouted.
"Bad news," she says by way of greeting. "The signal from your necklace was pinging through a relay server inside the West Wing."
My stomach drops.
Killian's standing behind me, arms crossed, watching.
"Where in the West Wing?" I ask.
"Sub-basement. Security hub."
"That's government access."
"Yeah," Eva says. "But the signal doesn't match White House architecture. It's foreign firmware. Someone snuck it in."
My voice goes cold. "Are you saying there's a foreign agent in the White House?"
Eva whistles. "I'm saying you've got a mole."
Killian and I drive to the Capitol using the decoy car.
The real one stays parked behind a fake wall in the garage — a military black SUV with diplomatic tags and two fake driver profiles.
Our marriage is fake.
Our security isn't.
Inside the car, Killian doesn't speak.
Neither do I.
But the silence feels full of questions neither of us want to ask.
When we pull up to the North Wing checkpoint, he turns to me.
"You know what we have to do now, right?"
I nod.
"Find the mole."
He stares at me. "And?"
"Burn them."
The White House staff has shrunk since the last security breach. Fewer aides. More cameras. Less movement between floors without double confirmation and a ret scan.
Still, someone slipped a listening device into my necklace.
That means one of them has clearance.
Someone with access to my personal effects.
Someone who touched my things.
The list narrows quickly.
We start with Assistant Liaison personnel.
Killian pretends to be polite.
I don't.
I watch their faces. Their hands. The way they breathe when I bring up the necklace. Most flinch. A few shrug.
One girl — Camille, a press intern — tries too hard to smile.
I log it mentally.
Killian watches her leave and says, "Not her."
"How do you know?"
"Her hands were shaking. She's scared, not guilty."
We move on.
By hour four, I'm ready to punch someone.
Killian reviews a visitor's log on a tablet. His brow furrows.
"What is it?" I ask.
He taps the screen.
"There's a name here that doesn't belong."
I look closer.
Trevor Maddox.
"Who's that?"
"Wasn't on your father's cleared staff list last week. No role description. Just a pass and a date."
The date?
Three days before the wedding.
My blood chills.
That's when the necklace appeared.
We find him in the sub-basement.
He's standing too straight. Wearing a suit too clean for this hour of night. Clipboard in hand.
I walk up to him like I belong here. Because I do.
He startles.
"Ms. Thorne," he says. "Didn't expect—"
"Save it."
He blinks. Killian flanks me on the right, hand resting on the gun beneath his blazer.
Trevor swallows.
I take a step closer.
"I know what you planted in my necklace," I whisper. "I know what you've been listening to."
He opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
And runs.
Killian's faster.
He tackles him to the ground, knees his spine, yanks his arm back with a brutal crack that makes me wince.
Trevor screams.
"Talk," Killian growls. "Or I break the other one."
Trevor gasps. "I didn't do it for them. I did it for you."
That freezes me.
"What the hell does that mean?"
He laughs — high, desperate. "You're not safe, Pheobe. Not from him. Not from anyone. You think you're in control? You're not. He's playing you too."
Killian punches him. Once. Hard.
Blood sprays.
"You're done talking," he mutters.
But Trevor keeps laughing.
Even as the blood fills his mouth.
He looks at me — and his last words before he blacks out are:
"Check the ring."
We haul him into a holding room and lock the door.
Security will clean up the story. Say he was caught with unauthorized access. He'll vanish into the system, like every other traitor before him.
But my hands are still shaking.
Not from fear.
From rage.
From confusion.
From the weight of that final whisper.
Check the ring.
Killian finds me in the hallway ten minutes later.
He says nothing.
Just walks over and holds out his hand.
I lift mine.
He takes the ring — his ring — the one he gave me to "protect me," and twists it once, then again.
There's a small click.
The outer band rotates.
A second layer beneath it reveals a tiny carved symbol.
A phoenix.
No — not a phoenix.
A burn mark.
A kill order symbol.
My breath stops.
"Killian," I whisper. "What is this?"
He doesn't meet my eyes.
His voice is hollow.
"It's what I am."