Chapter 7 Cover Story
COVER STORY
SARAH
The desert heat hits me the moment I step off the wing. Dry. Relentless. Nothing like the damp chill of Seattle that still clings to my blazer.
Torque’s keys are spinning again. The familiar metallic whisper returns now that we’re back on solid ground—a tell I’ve been cataloging since yesterday. Keys moving means the mask is on. Keys still mean something else. Something I witnessed in the hangar at three in the morning.
“Almost showtime.” He extends his hand, palm up. “Few more hours and you’ll be Mrs. Durant for real.”
The words land like stones. For real. Not a story about a wedding—an actual wedding. With a certificate. And witnesses. And legal standing that will follow me back to Washington if we survive this.
“Cameras start at the FBO,” he adds, his voice dropping the teasing edge. “Phoenix is already watching.”
I take his hand.
His fingers close around mine—warm, calloused, solid. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through my nervous system. Adrenaline. Stress response. Nothing more.
We walk toward the Fixed Base Operator building, and his arm slides around my waist. He’s done this before. Played a role. Worn a cover like a second skin.
“You’re tense.” His mouth is near my ear. “Blushing fiancées aren’t tense. They’re giddy. Excited. Can’t wait to say, ‘I do.’”
“I can manage giddy.”
“Show me.”
I force my shoulders to relax. Lean into him. Let something that might pass for anticipation soften my expression.
“Better,” he murmurs. “Almost believable.”
The taxi smells like leather and artificial pine. His hand settles on my knee, and I layer my fingers over his. Threaded together. The picture of an engaged couple who can’t stop touching.
Las Vegas slides past the window. Cameras everywhere—traffic lights, ATMs, hotel marquees with their high-definition displays. The city is a surveillance grid dressed in neon, and somewhere in the digital ether, Phoenix is watching its feeds populate with our faces.
Good. Let it watch.
Let it see Director Sarah Vance, stressed and sleep-deprived, arriving in Vegas with a man who looks at her like she’s the only thing in the room. Let it build its probability models around that data. Let it conclude that the uptight intelligence officer finally did something reckless.
The cover only works if Phoenix believes it.
Which means we have to make it real.
The Wynn rises from the Strip like a curved bronze blade, its windows catching the morning sun. Conference banners ripple in the artificial breeze near the entrance: NRO Quantum Security Summit. Three days of classified discussions disguised as an industry event.
Half the people in this lobby report to me through one chain or another. None of them look twice at the woman in the wrinkled blazer clinging to her fiancé’s arm.
The cover is already working.
“Checking in,” Torque tells the desk clerk. “Levi Durant. We have a suite reserved, and I called ahead about some—additional arrangements.”
The clerk’s fingers fly across her keyboard. Her smile widens as she reads whatever notes appear on her screen. “Mr. Durant! Yes, I see everything here. The honeymoon suite is ready, and I’ve confirmed all your appointments.” She beams at me. “You must be so excited!”
I manufacture enthusiasm. “It’s been a whirlwind.”
“I’ve coordinated with our wedding concierge,” the clerk continues.
“The bridal boutique is expecting you at ten, followed by hair and makeup at eleven-thirty. The limo will arrive at one, and the chapel has your two-thirty slot confirmed. The county clerk’s office never closes, so you should have plenty of time after the ceremony. ”
The itinerary hits me like a tactical briefing. Boutique. Hair and makeup. Limo. Chapel. County clerk.
He planned this. All of it. While I was running pre-flight checks and reviewing conference materials, he was arranging my wedding day down to the last detail.
“Perfect.” Torque squeezes my hand. “Can’t wait to make an honest woman out of her.”
“The whole package,” the clerk sighs. “So romantic.”
I keep the smile fixed on my face until we’re in the elevator, his hand warm at the small of my back. Two other guests witness our performance. The moment the doors close on our floor and we’re alone in the hallway, I round on him.
“Hair and makeup?”
“You’re getting married.” He’s already walking toward our room, key card in hand. “Brides get their hair done. It’s tradition.”
“I don’t need—”
“Phoenix needs to see a woman who’s doing this right. The dress. The hair. The whole production.” He swipes the card. Green light. The door swings open on obscene luxury. “We talked about this on the plane, Director. We’re not telling a story. We’re living it.”
The suite is absurd—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip, a sitting area, and one enormous bed dominating the room like a challenge.
“The hair stays up.” I don’t know why I’m fighting this particular battle, but the thought of letting it down feels like surrender.
“The hair comes down.” His voice carries a note I haven’t heard before. Firm. Final. “I want to see what you look like without the armor.”
Something flickers in my chest. “My hair isn’t armor.”
“Everything about you is armor.” He drops his bag on a chair and turns to face me. “The blazer. The posture. The way you pull your hair back so tight that it gives me headaches.” His head tilts, studying me. “When’s the last time you wore it down?”
I don’t answer. Can’t remember.
“That’s what I thought.” The keys start spinning.
The bridal boutique is a confection of white silk and impossible expectations. The sales associate, a woman named Miranda with perfectly manicured nails and an engagement ring the size of a small asteroid, greets us like we’re the most romantic story she’s ever heard.
“Last-minute Vegas wedding! How thrilling!” She clasps her hands together. “We’ll find you something perfect.”
Perfect. I’m buying a wedding dress for a fake marriage that will be legally binding, and this woman wants it to be perfect.
“Something simple,” I say. “Classic lines. We’re on a tight timeline.”
“Of course, of course.” Miranda begins pulling options from the racks—billowing skirts, elaborate beading, enough tulle to supply a ballet company. “Traditional bride. I love it. Let’s start with some silhouettes and see what speaks to you.”
The first dress she hands me is a meringue nightmare. Layers of fabric that make movement impossible. I emerge from the fitting room feeling like a whipped dessert.
Torque is lounging on a velvet settee, keys spinning, looking thoroughly out of place among the silk and satin. His eyes sweep over me once.
“No.”
Miranda’s face falls. “The princess silhouette is very popular—”
“She’s not a princess.” He stands and moves toward the racks with a purpose I didn’t expect. “She’s a queen. Find something that fits like one.”
He browses with unsettling focus, pushing past the elaborate gowns toward something in the back. His keys have gone still—the same focused energy I witnessed in the hangar.
“This one.”
The dress he pulls is nothing like the meringue. Clean lines. Elegant simplicity. But the neckline plunges deeper than anything I’d choose, and the fabric—some kind of silk charmeuse—will cling to every curve.
“That’s quite—form-fitting,” Miranda says carefully.
“That’s the point.” He holds the dress out to me. “Try it.”
I want to argue. Want to assert control over at least this small piece of the operation. But his eyes hold mine with something that isn’t quite a challenge—more like curiosity. Like he wants to see what I look like in something he chose.
I take the dress into the fitting room.
The zipper slides up like a whisper. The fabric settles against my skin—cool, smooth, intimate in a way the meringue never was. The neckline dips low between my breasts, and the skirt skims my hips before falling in a subtle flare.
I look like someone I don’t recognize. Someone who might actually do something as reckless as marry a stranger in Vegas.
“Let’s see.” Miranda’s voice carries through the door.
I step out.
Torque’s reaction is immediate. The keys stop. His eyes travel from my face down—slow, thorough, cataloging every place the fabric touches my body. Heat flickers in his gaze, there and gone so fast I almost miss it.
“Well?” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
“I was right.” His voice has dropped half a register. “Queen, not princess.”
“It’s very flattering,” Miranda offers carefully. “Though perhaps something with a higher neckline—”
“We’ll take this one.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. Something passes between us—an acknowledgment that he’s just chosen my wedding dress, that I’m standing here in white silk he picked out, that the lines of this operation are blurring in ways I didn’t anticipate.
“Shoes next,” Miranda chirps. “And I assume you’ll want the veil?”
“No veil.” I find my voice. “I need to be able to see clearly.”
Torque’s mouth twitches. “Always the tactician.”
The hotel salon smells like expensive products and possibility. The stylist, a woman named Jade with purple streaks in her own hair, settles me into a chair and starts removing pins.
Torque sits in the waiting area, a magazine open on his lap that he’s definitely not reading. His eyes track Jade’s movements as my hair comes down—first one section, then another, the severe twist I’ve maintained for years slowly unwinding.
“So much hair,” Jade murmurs. “When’s the last time you wore it loose?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well.” She runs her fingers through the length, testing the texture. “Your fiancé mentioned he wanted to see it down. Any thoughts on style? Soft waves? Elegant curls?”
I catch Torque’s reflection in the mirror. He’s watching with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Soft waves,” I say. “Nothing too structured.”
“Perfect for a Vegas wedding.” Jade reaches for her tools. “Natural romance.”