She waited until 3:00 a.m.
When the house breathed slower. When guards changed. When Lucien was either asleep or watching.
She counted on both.
The keycard she swiped two days ago worked. She hadn't tested it until now. The scanner lit green, and the east wing hallway unfolded before her like a throat swallowing a secret.
She walked slowly.
No cameras in this corridor visibly.
But someone like Lucien didn't need wires to see.
The archive door was older. No digital panel. Just a coded lock.
She didn't guess the numbers.
She pulled them off the inside of the decanter shelf in his study scratched behind a label no one was meant to peel.
The door clicked open.
Darkness breathed out.
And inside
Stacks.
Boxes.
Files marked with aliases and numbers.
Nothing personal.
Until one red binder near the back shelf.
Thin.
Too clean.
She opened it.
Inside: ledgers. Crossed names. Transaction codes. Cities.
Then—
A section labeled Pending Confirmations.
Leona's fingers slowed.
Two names stood out.
DE LUCA, LEONA – Assigned: C-93
Status: On Hold – Ordered via Interim Clearance
And then, beneath that..
C-93: Cain
Her hands shook.
Not from fear.
From fury.
The contract hadn't just existed.
It was still active.
Paused.
Not erased.
And Lucien had access to this archive.
Which meant either he knew…
Or he never looked.
She flipped the page.
Something else tucked behind it.
A photo.
Not of her.
Not of Cain.
Of Lucien.
With a red X drawn through his face.
---
She didn't slam the archive shut.
She closed it carefully.
Softly.
Because panic was messy, and she'd learned in this house that silence held more power than screams.
The red X over Lucien's face stared up at her like a dare.
Who marked him?
The file didn't say.
But someone high enough clearance level above hers, even on paper had written a kill order.
On the man she was married to.
Leona tucked the photo into the waistband of her pants and zipped her blouse closed over it.
She walked back through the corridor with calculated calm.
Every step echoing against marble, every camera blind spot etched into memory.
By the time she reached her room, the red light in the ceiling blinked once.
She looked straight at it.
And whispered, "You missed one."
Then locked the door.
From the inside.
She turned on the bathroom faucet let the water run then reached into her blouse and pulled out the photo.
Lucien.
Black and white.
Clean profile. Shadow at his jawline.
A red X.
Drawn not in ink.
Lipstick.
Her lipstick.
That shade.
The one that had appeared before she arrived.
She froze.
Someone had used her things.
Someone wanted this to look personal.
She stared at the image like it might blink.
Then set it on the counter.
And asked herself the real question:
Do I tell him?
Because Lucien didn't warn her about her own kill order.
He let her walk blind through a war.
But now?
She could return the favor.
Or stop the bullet.
And the scariest part wasn't the decision.
It was how much she wanted to make the wrong one.
*****
She wasn't asleep.
She couldn't be.
Not after the file. Not after the photo. Not after the red slash through Lucien's face that hadn't come from an enemy, but from someone inside.
So when the motion sensor light flared in the garden below her window
She noticed.
Immediately.
One figure.
Standing beneath the citrus tree near the eastern hedge.
Unarmed.
Still.
Watching.
It wasn't a guard.
And no alarm had gone off.
She slid to the window and looked down. The man stepped into the light just enough to be seen—hood low, face shadowed.
Then he lifted one hand.
Not to wave.
To beckon.
She was down the back stairs in seconds.
Through the glass door.
Out into the cold.
The air bit against her skin, but she didn't feel it.
She only felt the wrongness.
How had he gotten in?
The estate was airtight.
"No one's supposed to get through," she said as she approached him. "Not unless they know the codes or the guards."
The man chuckled once, quietly. "That's the funny thing about security," he said. "It has a price."
Her stomach dropped.
"You bribed them."
He didn't deny it.
"Why are you here?"
The man didn't step forward. He didn't need to.
"I came to give you something your husband won't."
Her throat tightened. "And what's that?"
He tilted his head. "The truth."
A beat.
Then:
"The marriage? It wasn't about peace."
Her chest rose sharply.
"It was about blood," he continued. "Specifically, your brother's."
Leona went still.
The man's voice dropped, softer now. "Your brother crossed a line—stole from the wrong man. Killed someone protected. And Lucien? Lucien made a plan."
She shook her head. "He didn't even know me—"
"No," the man said. "But he knew your name. And that was enough."
She took a step back. "So he married me to hurt me?"
"To hurt your family," the man corrected. "Maybe both."
Silence.
Cold wind.
Then, finally, she asked
"Did he do it to protect my brother… or to punish me for him?"
The man didn't smile.
He just whispered:
"That's the part you get to decide."
She stared at him.
Shaking. Not with fear.
With betrayal.
"You have a choice," he said. "Take revenge… or live each day married to the man who used you as a knife."
He turned.
Started walking into the dark.
No goodbye.
Just one final sentence over his shoulder:
"Pick a side, Leona Romano."
Location: Leona's Room – 4:30 p.m.
The moment the door closed behind her, she lost the air in her lungs.
Not from fear.
From fury.
She paced once. Twice. Palms against her temples.
He planned the marriage.
Lucien hadn't been forced into it. He'd orchestrated it.
Not to save her.
To ruin her.
She stopped in front of the mirror.
Stared at herself.
The silk blouse. The dark eyes. The woman she was turning into inside these walls.
And suddenly
It felt disgusting.
She tore the blouse off. Kicked the suitcase. Pulled the zipper open and yanked the photo of Lucien back out the one with the red X.
Had he seen it yet?
Had he smiled when he found it?
She grabbed the lipstick from her dresser, the same shade drawn across his face in the photo.
And for one insane moment, she considered scribbling it across her own mouth.
Like war paint.
Instead, she set it down.
And whispered, voice trembling:
"You married me to make me bleed."
She sat on the bed.
Looked up at the blinking red light in the ceiling.
The camera.
Always watching.
She smiled.
Not kindly.
Not sweetly.
But with steel.
"You should've finished the job, Lucien."
Then she lay down on the bed
Fully dressed.
Eyes open.
And waited.
Not for sleep.
For him.
It was past eight when the door finally opened downstairs.
She didn't move.
She'd already set the table.
Low lighting. Real plates. Actual effort.
A plate of handmade risotto sat across from hers. Steam curled in elegant spirals.
Lucien's footsteps came slow across the marble.
And then he stopped.
She could almost hear the thought forming.
"Where's the staff?" he called.
She answered without turning. "I told them not to come in tonight."
A pause.
Then the soft sound of his jacket being removed, and the click of his watch hitting the entry table.
He entered the dining room like a king walking into foreign territory.
Still.
Controlled.
But curious.
She was standing behind the island counter, drying her hands. Hair twisted back. Simple black blouse, apron tied once at her waist.
He stared at her for a moment.
Not cold.
Not suspicious.
Just… surprised.
"You cooked?"
She glanced at him. "That's not the riddle."
Lucien sat at the head of the table, picked up his fork, but didn't eat.
"Alright," he said. "Ask."
She leaned forward, voice light but sharp.
"I'm soft enough to cut, but hard enough to break you. I'm everywhere but only seen when missing. What am I?"
His gaze didn't leave her.
He didn't blink.
And then, slowly he stood.
Took a single step toward her.
Then another.
Her pulse kicked.
She swallowed once, lips parting not from nerves, but from instinct. Her body remembered things she hadn't agreed to feel.
Lucien stopped just in front of her.
Close enough for her to feel the heat off his chest.
He lowered his voice.
"Trust."
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He looked down at her hands.
Then slowly up to her eyes.
And asked
Sharply.
"You met someone today… didn't you?"