POV: Phoebe Thorne
The red numbers on the motel TV blinked "00:02."
Two minutes past midnight.
Outside, rain lashed the windshield. Inside, the room reeked of cheap carpet and worse perfume.
I shouldn't have slept.
I was dry‑cleaned memories and mistrust and bone‑deep fire.
But I passed out anyway — exhaustion, pain, adrenaline‑drunk confusion.
Now, I jerk awake because the screen remembers me better than I do.
A face blocks the feed. My face.
"First Daughter Kidnapped by Rogue Agent."
Three words eat my last shred of calm.
They forgot the question mark.
Because right now, I'm not kidnapped.
I'm a fugitive.
Behind me, Killian sits on the edge of the bed — rifle leaning against his leg, eyes unreadable, as cold as the lid of a coffin.
He doesn't blink at the TV. He doesn't cleave me with an apology or a plea. He just sits. Still. Controlled.
Because for him, maybe this is just another mission.
But for me… this is every broken promise I ever believed bent into a noose.
