Chapter 9 Kate
KATE
My hand slides across cool sheets and stops short, fingers curling into nothing. For a moment, I stay still, eyes closed, hoping my body is lying to me, that if I just wait long enough, he’ll be there—warm and solid, like he was when I fell asleep. He isn’t.
The room is quiet in a way that feels wrong. Light filters through the curtains, cutting across the unfamiliar ceiling. I blink a few times, orienting myself, my pulse already ticking too fast for someone who just woke up.
I’m in James’s room. The bed still smells faintly like him—soap, clean fabric, something deeper underneath that I can’t name but recognize anyway. I sit up slowly, the unease arriving before any coherent thought does.
He probably just stepped out. That’s what I tell myself as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor.
But that hope dies when I glance at the bedside table and see nothing there—no note, no scribble on hotel stationery, no hastily written explanation.
Not even a polite, Had to run. See you later.
My chest tightens as I get off the bed and move through the room on autopilot, collecting my clothes, dressing without really seeing myself. This is stupid, I think as I pull my hair back. I knew what this was. I didn’t expect anything, and that’s true. Mostly.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself, and leave his room. He’s a grown man, and he doesn’t owe me explanations. We’re here to work, not—whatever last night was.
I make it back to my room on autopilot, fingers numb as I swipe the keycard, the door clicking shut behind me with finality.
Inside, the quiet presses in as I head straight for the bathroom, shedding my dress along the way like I’m peeling off evidence.
The shower heats quickly, steam filling the small space.
I step under the spray, bracing my palms against the tiled wall as the water cascades over me.
That’s when the memory hits me in fragments.
The way his hand settled at my waist on the dance floor, pulling me out of discomfort and into something steady.
The way the rest of the room faded until it was just us moving together.
The way his presence had wrapped around me like a promise he never spoke out loud.
I tilt my head, watching the water trail over the marks he left behind, a strange mix of comfort and unease curling in my chest. He was real, last night happened, and whatever this morning is, whatever this feeling is, it doesn’t erase that.
I finish showering slowly, as if lingering might bring clarity with it, but it doesn’t.
When I dress, I choose my clothes carefully again—professional, composed, armor in fabric form.
I smooth my hair, school my expression in the mirror, and try to convince myself that I can compartmentalize this the way I always do.
I run into Addison near the elevators, coffee in hand, already awake and annoyingly functional. Relief loosens something in my chest the moment I see her. At least one thing in this place feels familiar.
“Morning,” she greets brightly. “You look like you lost a fight with a very comfortable bed.”
“Something like that,” I mutter.
Her eyes flick over me, sharp and observant. “You okay?”
I hesitate for just a beat before asking, “Have you seen James?”
She doesn’t even pause. “Nope. Probably already downstairs, or out early taking pictures. You know, sightseeing.”
I nod, even though that answer doesn’t sit right. He didn’t strike me as the early morning stroll through Mogadishu type. Or the sightseeing type at all.
“This is not the time or place for sightseeing,” I mumble, the words echoing in my head with surprising clarity.
Addison takes a sip of her coffee. “We’ve got a little time before the meeting anyway. If he’s not back by then, we’ll worry.”
I force a small smile and follow her toward the elevators, telling myself to focus. To ground myself in what I can control. Today, being the last day, matters. Whatever is happening with James—whatever this unease is—I can deal with it later.
Downstairs, the lobby is already buzzing with activity. Journalists cluster near the entrance, security moving with that particular brand of alert efficiency that tells me everyone knows today matters. The air humming with anticipation.
I scan the room without meaning to, but there is no sign of James.
Addison catches the movement and grins slowly. “Looking for someone?”
“Can you not?” I grumble.
She grins, steering us toward the breakfast buffet. “Oh, I absolutely can, because you disappeared last night and left me to fend for myself at an international peace gala. That is not very best-friend behavior.”
“I didn’t disappear,” I defend. “I just… went to bed.”
“With James,” she adds pointedly.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Lower your voice.”
“So that’s a yes?” she laughs.
I busy myself with pouring coffee I don’t really want—anything to avoid her gaze. “It’s not a big deal.”
“That blush says otherwise.”
I risk a look at her and immediately regret it. She’s watching me with that knowing expression, the one that means she’s already pieced things together and is now just enjoying my discomfort.
“You slept with him,” she announces triumphantly.
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She giggles. “God, Kate. I leave you alone for one evening, and you hook up with the silent photographer. That’s two times in a row now.”
“It wasn’t—“ I stop myself, exhaling through my nose. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Fine,” she relents, far too easily. “Later then. But for the record, I’m proud of you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For living a little. For not overthinking everything into paralysis.” She nudges my shoulder. “Even if you have terrible taste in emotionally unavailable men.”
I snort despite myself. “You’ve known him a whole thirty seconds.”
“And I clocked him immediately,” she replies. “Broody. Quiet. Avoidant. Probably allergic to follow-up conversations.”
My chest tightens. She’s mostly joking, but the words land closer to the truth than I’m comfortable with.
After breakfast, our chauffeur picks us up and drops us off at the venue without James.
After going through security, we find seats near the main conference room as people begin filtering in, their voices low and movements more deliberate than they were yesterday. I set up my notebook and headset, hands moving from muscle memory while my mind lags half a step behind.
“He’ll be here,” Addison says casually, as if reading my thoughts when she sees me check my watch for the tenth time. “You’re wound way too tight over this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, but I get it. First international assignment, first gala, first mysterious one-night stand who turns into a coworker. It’s a lot.” She smiles.
I swallow. “It just feels… off.”
She studies me for a moment, her teasing expression softening into something more serious. “Kate. You’re safe. We’re okay. Security is tight, the talks are going well, and whatever you’re feeling is probably just nerves.”
I want to believe her. I really do, but as the minutes stretch on and James still doesn’t appear, the unease sharpens instead of fading. It curls low in my stomach, like my body knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
When an announcement crackles over the speakers—a brief delay before the final session begins—the room stirs with mild irritation.
Addison perks up instantly, professional instincts kicking in. “Oh, okay. Something is definitely up.”
The delay stretches from minutes into something heavier.
People stop pretending it’s routine—conversations lower, shoulders tighten, phones come out and stay out.
I catch fragments of words drifting through the room—security, confirmed, stand by—nothing concrete, but enough to set my nerves on edge.
The air feels charged now, brittle, like it might crack if someone breathes too loudly.
I take off the headset around my neck, fingers restless.
Addison’s already working, phone pressed to her ear, eyes sharp and focused in a way that tells me she’s switched gears completely. This is where she comes alive—when information starts bleeding through the cracks and everyone else is still pretending it’s fine.
I watch her pace a few steps away, murmuring into the phone, nodding once, twice. Something tightens in my chest.
I check the time again, just as a notification buzzes on my phone. Then another. Then several more, rapid-fire, stacking up so quickly my screen lights up like it’s panicking. I open the first alert, breath catching halfway through the headline.
brEAKING: Yusuf Aden Barre reported dead in Mogadishu.
The name hits me like a punch. I know that name.
I heard it yesterday during the talks, being spoken carefully, like everyone was afraid the walls might hear it too. I remember the way the room shifted when it came up, the collective tightening, unspoken acknowledgment of just how dangerous that man was.
My fingers go numb around my phone, and another alert slides in beneath the first.
Sources confirm targeted killing. Details are still emerging.
A ripple moves through the delegates like a wave breaking—voices rising, security suddenly very present. I hear gasps, sharp intakes of breath, hurried whispers in half a dozen languages. Phones are held up, screens shared, eyes wide with disbelief.
Addison’s head snaps up from her call. “Kate,” she calls, already moving toward me. “You seeing this?”
I nod mutely, throat too tight to form words.
Her expression shifts instantly, professional focus sharpening into something harder, more alert. “Holy shit,” she breathes. “This is—this changes everything.”
An announcement finally crackles over the speakers, the voice tight, carefully controlled. All delegates are asked to remain seated. Please stay calm and await further instructions.
Addison leans in close. “We’re okay. Let’s stay put and wait for more details.” Her hand squeezes my arm, grounding me. “You’re with me.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Just then, the doors at the far end of the room swing open abruptly, security flooding in with a sense of urgency that leaves no room for doubt. Their posture is different now—no pretense of ease, weapons visible, movements sharp.
“This is bad,” I whisper.
Addison doesn’t disagree.
Before she can respond, a sound cracks through the air. It’s the loud, unmistakable rasp of gunfire.
The room erupts instantly—people scream, chairs overturn, and someone shouts in a language I don’t understand. Panic is raw and contagious. Security reacts in a blur of motion, shouting orders, bodies moving to shield and contain.
Someone stumbles into me from behind, knocking the breath from my lungs. Addison swears, dragging me lower as bodies surge toward the exits in a blind, panicked rush.
“Down,” she snaps, voice cutting through the noise. “Stay down.”
I obey on instinct, knees slamming into the floor as we duck behind the overturned table. My hands shake violently as I press them flat against the carpet, trying to anchor myself to something solid. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break free of my chest.
Addison’s hand is tight around my wrist. She’s breathing fast too, but her eyes are clear, already scanning for exits.
Then I see a familiar figure. He emerges from the chaos like he’s been carved out of it. He’s wearing a balaclava, hiding his whole face except his eyes, but that build, those eyes—there is no question that it’s him.
James.
There is no camera in his hands, or hesitation in his movements. He’s not scrambling, shouting, or reacting like everyone else in the room. He’s moving with purpose—body low, controlled, eyes tracking something I can’t see yet.
I freeze.
He’s definitely not a bystander. He pivots sharply, grabs a weapon from a fallen guard with practiced ease, and in the same fluid motion, fires. The sound is deafening, impossibly loud, and I flinch hard, a gasp tearing out of me.
The gunman goes down.
It happens so fast my brain struggles to keep up. This isn’t the quiet photographer who danced with me last night, or the man who watched me translate with steady calm and unreadable eyes. This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous, terrifying, and precise.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, the words barely forming around the shock clogging my throat.
Addison sees him too. Her grip tightens painfully. “Kate! What the—“
James locks eyes with me across the room. For a split second, the chaos narrows to that point of contact. His gaze is sharp, focused, and unmistakably alert. There’s no softness there now, just intent.
Then he looks away, and in that instant, I understand something with terrifying clarity: The man I slept with doesn’t exist. Whoever James Smith really is—whatever he is—he’s far more dangerous than I ever imagined.
And my life will never be simple again.