Chapter 16
ARCHER
Hotel de Paris
Hotel de Paris sits in the heart of Monte Carlo like a crown jewel, all Belle époque elegance and old-world luxury.
The kind of place where diplomats negotiate treaties and billionaires close deals over champagne.
Neutral ground. Public enough to prevent violence, private enough for sensitive conversations.
The kind of place that makes an excellent trap.
I adjust my position in the lobby chair, eyes tracking movement through the ornate space.
Fitz positioned us early, claiming the high ground before Moreau could set the terms. Logan's team has surveillance covering every entrance, every exit, every angle.
We're wired, armed, and ready for whatever Moreau brings to the table.
Marissa sits across from me, outwardly calm, but I recognize the tension in her shoulders.
She's been quiet since we left the safe house this morning, mask firmly in place.
Last night she fell asleep against me after Fitz's interruption about the Iron Choir representative, but this morning she woke distant.
Preparing herself for whatever comes next.
Fitz's presence is the only thing keeping my hands to myself. We're operatives on a mission, not lovers waiting to see if the world burns down around us.
"Movement," Logan says through my earpiece. "Target approaching from the east entrance. Alone."
Alone. Not with the Iron Choir representative Fitz mentioned last night. That's the first red flag.
I track Moreau's arrival across the lobby. He's all Interpol authority—expensive suit, confident stride, the bearing of someone accustomed to power. Nothing about him suggests a man who burned an operation in Marrakesh and nearly got us killed. Just diplomatic charm and polish.
He spots us, and a smile crosses his face—warm and genuine, the kind of expression that makes you want to trust him, which is exactly why I don't.
"Fitz," Moreau says, extending his hand as he reaches our position. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
Fitz doesn't take the offered hand. "You said you were bringing an Iron Choir representative. You said they wanted to negotiate."
Moreau's smile doesn't falter as he withdraws his hand smoothly. "Change of plans. They wanted to observe first, see if this meeting was genuine or a Cerberus trap. I came alone to establish trust."
Lies wrapped in diplomatic language. I can see Fitz processing the same assessment.
"You also said you have intelligence about the Conductor's plans," Fitz continues, voice flat. "We're here to listen."
Moreau's gaze shifts to Marissa. "Nocturne. I'm glad to see you made it out of Marrakesh safely."
"No thanks to you," she says, voice flat.
"Ah." Moreau has the audacity to look pained. "I understand you're upset about how things unfolded. That's actually why I'm here. To explain. To help."
"Help," I repeat, letting skepticism color the word. "You burned her cover and ran. How exactly is that helping?"
"Because the Conductor doesn't trust her anymore," Moreau says simply. "Which means she's no longer useful to them as an asset. Which means they'll be watching for her at the gala, expecting her to interfere." He pauses, letting that sink in. "But that also means they won't be watching for me."
Fitz's expression doesn't change. "You're offering to go in her place."
"I'm offering to be your inside man," Moreau corrects. "I still have access to the Iron Choir's operations. They believe I'm with them. I can get close to Amelie in ways Nocturne no longer can."
Too smooth. Too convenient.
"Why?" Marissa asks. "Why turn on them now?"
Moreau's expression shifts, vulnerability crossing his features that feels calculated. "Because they've gone too far. A child barely old enough for school. Using her as leverage against her father. There are lines even I won't cross."
The mention of Amelie feels designed to appeal to our sense of morality and make us believe he's had some crisis of conscience.
"And the Iron Choir representative you mentioned?" Fitz asks. "The one coming to negotiate?"
"Delayed," Moreau says smoothly. "Trust takes time to build. Let me prove myself first. Let me attend the next meeting when they send someone. Let me show them I'm still loyal while feeding you their plans."
It's a good pitch, smooth and rehearsed and almost believable.
Almost, but not quite.
"We need to discuss this privately," Fitz says, standing. "Wait here."
Moreau nods, settling back in his chair like a man with nothing to hide. "Of course. Take your time."
Fitz gestures for Marissa to follow him toward a more secluded corner of the lobby. She goes without question, leaving me alone with Moreau.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
The moment they're out of earshot, Moreau's expression changes. The polished mask slips just enough to show ice underneath.
"You don't trust me," he says quietly. "That's smart. You shouldn't."
I keep my expression neutral. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I'm the least of your problems, Kingslayer." He leans forward, voice dropping even lower. "Tell me something. How well do you really know Nocturne?"
Every instinct screams danger. This is manipulation, a play to create division. I should shut it down immediately.
But I don't.
"Well enough," I say.
Moreau's smile is thin, knowing. "You barely know her at all. High-stakes mission, emotions running hot, adrenaline clouding judgment. You think she's surrendering to you because she trusts you, cares about you."
"Careful," I say, voice dropping low.
"She's a trained operative," Moreau continues, ignoring the warning. "One of Interpol's best deep cover specialists. Do you have any idea how good she is at becoming exactly what someone needs her to be? How convincing she can make a lie?"
"She's not lying."
"That submission you think is real—what better cover could there be?" I hold his gaze, letting silence stretch. He's good—hitting exactly the pressure points that would work on someone less experienced. Someone who hadn't spent twenty years reading people in life-or-death situations.
"You're playing a weak hand, Moreau." My voice carries the flat certainty of a man stating facts. "If Marissa wanted me compromised, I'd already be dead. She's had a dozen opportunities. Instead, she's bled for this mission. For that child. Try again."
But I file away his angle of attack. Not because I believe it—because understanding how someone tries to manipulate you tells you what they're afraid of.
Moreau sits back, studying me with those cold, calculating eyes. "I told you the Conductor doesn't trust her. I didn't say she wasn't working for him. Think about it, Kingslayer. Every operation she's been on, every move she's made. How do you know which side she's really playing for?"
I want to shut him down, want to walk away, want to tell him to go to hell and never question Marissa again.
But doubt flickers. Just briefly, barely there before I crush it down, but enough that I hate myself for letting it exist at all.
Because Moreau's words land where they're designed to land. The operational questions I've pushed aside. How her cover lasted years in the Iron Choir when others burned out in months. How perfectly she adapts to every situation, every role. How convincing she is when she needs to be.
It's manipulation. Moreau's trying to fracture our partnership before the gala. Every word is calculated to create exactly this doubt.
But knowing doesn't make it go away.
"You don't believe me," Moreau says, reading my silence correctly.
"That's fine. But ask yourself this—when she looks at you, when she submits to you, when she whispers your name in the dark—how do you know it's real?
How do you know she's not the Conductor's best weapon, aimed straight at your heart? "
Movement across the lobby saves me from having to respond. Marissa and Fitz returning, both their expressions neutral.
But when Marissa's eyes meet mine, her face changes. Some subtle shift in her expression that tells me she sees it, sees the doubt Moreau just planted, sees the question I'm trying desperately to hide.
Her face goes blank.
And in that moment, I know I've made a catastrophic mistake.
"We've heard enough," Fitz says to Moreau, voice hard. "You're coming with us for further questioning."
Moreau doesn't resist as Logan's team materializes from their positions around the lobby. Doesn't argue as they secure his wrists with practiced efficiency. He just smiles at me, small and knowing, as if to say his work here is complete.
"Archer," Fitz says sharply. "With me."
I follow him and Marissa toward the exit, but she's not looking at me anymore.
Distance has slid between us like armor.
The warmth from last night, the promise of figuring things out after the mission, the fragile trust we'd been building—all of it gone behind walls I've seen her use before, always against everyone else but never against me. Until now.
We reach the vehicles outside, and Fitz assigns positions. Logan will handle Moreau's transport and interrogation. Fitz is heading back to Opus Noir to coordinate with the team. Which leaves Marissa and me in the same vehicle heading back to the safe house.
The silence in the car is suffocating.
I want to say something, want to explain that I know what Moreau was doing, that I don't believe his bullshit, that the doubt was just a flicker and I hate myself for even letting it cross my mind.
But how do I explain that without confirming I doubted her at all?
"Marissa—"
"Don't." Her voice is quiet, controlled, and completely devoid of emotion. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't."
"He was playing me. Trying to create division before the gala."
"I know what he was doing." She stares straight ahead, not looking at me. "And it worked."
"It didn't—"
"I saw your face, Archer." Now she turns, and her eyes are harder than I've ever seen them. "When I came back across that lobby, I saw you look at me. Saw you question whether I'm real or just a cover story."
"For a moment," I admit, because lying to her now would be worse. "For the briefest moment, his words got through. But I know better—"
"Do you?" She cuts me off, and there's pain beneath the controlled mask.
"Because I've spent my entire career becoming what people need me to be.
Playing roles. Earning trust so I can betray it later.
And maybe Moreau's right. Maybe you don't know which parts of me are real and which parts are the cover. "
"I know you," I say, and I mean it with everything in me.
"You know what I've shown you." Her voice cracks slightly before she controls it. "And right now, I can't tell if that's enough."
The rest of the drive passes in silence.
When we reach the safe house, she's out of the vehicle before it fully stops, heading inside without looking back.
I follow, but she goes straight down to the ops center, pulling up the secure video feed from Opus Noir.
Logan's team has Moreau in an interrogation room there, and Fitz is overseeing from the command center above the club.
She becomes all business—focused and unreachable behind walls I can't breach.
The day bleeds into evening as we watch the feeds from the safe house.
Moreau's interrogation yields nothing useful—he's too experienced, too well-trained to break under standard questioning.
Fitz considers enhanced measures but decides the intelligence value doesn't justify the international incident it would create.
Moreau remains in secure detention at Opus Noir, and every time the camera catches his face on our monitors, he's smiling that knowing smile.
Because he won even while losing.
Marissa and I work side by side reviewing gala preparations, going over security protocols, coordinating with the embedded team. We're polite. Efficient. We communicate everything that needs to be said for the mission, and the silence between us grows heavier with each passing hour.
The gala looms close. Time to protect a young child from an organization that doesn't negotiate, time to stop the Iron Choir from whatever they're really planning, and time to figure out how to repair what I just broke.
Marissa heads upstairs without a word. I follow after a few minutes, giving her space, but when I reach the bedroom, she's already claimed the far side of the bed, still dressed in her tactical clothing like armor she refuses to remove.
"Marissa—"
"I'm exhausted, Archer." She doesn't turn to look at me. "Can we just sleep?"
I want to push, want to make her talk to me, make her understand that I know what we have is real, that Moreau's poison didn't take root, but she's already shutting down and pushing now will only drive her further away.
So I settle on the other side of the bed, not touching her, and stare at the ceiling in the darkness. At Opus Noir, Moreau sits in detention, still smiling. The gala approaches fast. And here in this bed, Marissa is close enough to touch but completely unreachable.
I let doubt show on my face for a moment, and I might have destroyed everything that matters.