Chapter 7 Cover Story #2
The process takes forty-five minutes. Jade works in silence, and the transformation plays out in the mirror—the severe director of the NRO slowly dissolving into someone softer. Someone who might fall in love recklessly. Someone who might marry a man she barely knows.
When Jade finishes, I barely recognize myself. My hair falls past my shoulders in loose waves, framing my face in a way that changes its entire geography. I look younger. More vulnerable.
I look like a bride.
“Well?” Jade turns the chair, so I’m facing the waiting area. “What does the groom think?”
Torque stands slowly. The keys are completely still. He crosses the space between us and stops close—too close—his eyes moving over my face, my hair, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“There she is,” he says softly. “Knew you were hiding under all that control.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Liar.” But there’s no mockery in it. Just that same intensity, that same focus he gives to aircraft before asking them to do impossible things.
His hand rises. For a moment, I think he’s going to touch my hair—and I don’t know if I want him to or not. But his fingers stop just short, hovering near the waves that frame my face.
“Phoenix won’t know what hit it,” he says.
The limo is white.
Champagne waits in a silver bucket, two flutes already poured. The driver—a cheerful man named Eduardo who calls everyone “boss”—navigates us through Vegas traffic while romantic ballads play softly through the speakers.
“Champagne?” Torque offers a glass.
“I should stay sharp.”
“You should look like a bride who’s celebrating.” He presses the glass into my hand. “One sip. For the cameras.”
I take the glass. The champagne is surprisingly good—crisp, dry, nothing like the cheap stuff I expected from a Vegas wedding package.
“To impulsive decisions,” he says, raising his own glass.
“To operational necessity.”
“You really know how to kill a mood.” But he’s smiling—not the sharp grin he uses as a shield, something smaller. Almost genuine.
The Strip slides past the tinted windows. Wedding chapels every few blocks, their signs promising quick ceremonies and eternal love. Vegas has industrialized romance, turned marriage into an assembly line of “I dos” and photo packages.
“Tell me something true,” he says suddenly.
I glance over. “What?”
“We’re about to get married. Seems like I should know something real about you.” His eyes hold mine. “Something that isn’t in your personnel file.”
“You read my personnel file?”
“Brass pulled the relevant sections. Impressive career trajectory. Youngest NRO director in history. What it doesn’t say is anything personal.” He shifts, angling his body toward mine. “So tell me something true.”
The request catches me off guard. I’ve spent years building walls—keeping the personal separate from the professional, the vulnerable separate from the competent. But in a few minutes, I’m going to stand at an altar with this man and promise things I don’t mean.
Maybe he deserves one truth first.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. “Any of this. The dress. The hair. The—” I gesture vaguely. “Romance. I’ve spent fifteen years being good at my job, and none of that prepared me for pretending to be someone who makes decisions with her heart instead of her head.”
“Is that what you think this is? Heart over head?”
“Isn’t it? The cover requires me to seem like I’ve lost control. Done something irrational. That’s not—” I stop. Recalibrate. “That’s not who I am.”
“Maybe.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Or maybe it’s exactly who you are, and you’ve just spent so long controlling it that you forgot it was there.”
The words land harder than they should.
“The Little White Wedding Chapel,” Eduardo’s voice announces through the intercom. “Five minutes, boss.”
Through the window, it’s visible—a white building with a neon sign and a drive-through option for couples who can’t be bothered to leave their cars. Hearts and flowers everywhere. A statue of Cupid by the entrance.
This is where I’m getting married.
“Ready?” Torque’s voice has lost its teasing edge.
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, actually.” He sets down his champagne glass, holds my gaze with sudden intensity. “I know this wasn’t your choice. I know it’s for the cover. But we’re about to make promises in front of witnesses, and I need to know you’re in this. Really in this.”
Something shifts in my chest. “I’m in this.”
“Okay then.” The keys disappear into his pocket. “Let’s get married.”
The chapel interior is exactly as garish as the exterior promised.
White pews with pink ribbon. An altar covered in silk flowers.
Ceiling fans stir air that smells like roses and furniture polish.
An officiant in a rhinestone-studded jacket introduces himself as “Pastor Dave” and asks if we want the Elvis package.
“Standard ceremony,” Torque says. “Keep it simple.”
“Simple but heartfelt,” Pastor Dave agrees, leading us toward the altar. “That’s what true love is all about. Now, I understand you’re in a bit of a hurry, but I always like to personalize things. How long have you two known each other?”
“Long enough,” Torque says smoothly.
“Isn’t that always the way?” Pastor Dave winks at me. “When you know, you know. Now, let’s get you two hitched.”
A photographer appears—part of the package, apparently—and begins snapping pictures as we take our positions at the altar. Two witnesses I don’t recognize sit in the front pew, probably employees paid to watch strangers promise forever.
“Dearly beloved,” Pastor Dave begins, his voice carrying the cadence of a man who’s done this ten thousand times, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Levi Durant and Sarah Vance in holy matrimony.”
Holy matrimony. The words scrape against the performance like sandpaper.
I focus on my breathing. In. Out. This is an operation. A cover. Nothing more.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” Pastor Dave continues, “a partnership of two souls coming together as one. Levi, do you take Sarah to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
“I do.” Torque’s voice is clear. Certain. No hesitation.
Pastor Dave turns to me, and I brace for the same words. But what comes out is different.
“Sarah, do you take Levi to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until death do you part?”
Obey.
The word hits me like cold water. I’m aware of Torque beside me, perfectly still, waiting for my response. The photographer’s camera clicks. The witnesses watch.
“I—” The word catches.
Torque leans close, his mouth near my ear. “Just say it, Director.” His breath is warm against my skin. “It’s only words.” A pause. “Besides …” His voice drops even lower, meant for me alone. “Obedience can be—negotiated. In private.”
Heat crawls up my spine. The implication lands—unmistakable, unsettling, doing something complicated to my pulse.
“I do.” The words come out steadier than I expect.
Pastor Dave beams, oblivious to whatever just passed between us. “Wonderful! Now, by the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I pronounce you husband and wife.” He spreads his arms wide, rhinestones catching the light. “You may kiss the bride!”
Torque turns to me. For a moment, calculation flashes in his eyes—the same assessment I’d make before executing a tactical maneuver. Camera angle. Witness positioning. The performance we need to sell.
Then his hands come up and cup my face.
His palms are warm against my cheeks, his fingers curving around my jaw—not rough, but firm.
Confident. The grip of a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it.
My face is completely in his control, tilted to the angle he chooses, and something about the casual possession of the gesture sends electricity skittering down my spine.
He holds me there for a heartbeat. Two. Long enough for me to feel my pulse hammering against his fingertips. Long enough for his eyes to search mine, looking for something I can’t name.
Then he kisses me.
His lips meet mine—firm, warm, certain. Not tentative. Not performative. He kisses like he flies: controlled chaos, precision wrapped in recklessness. The contact is electric, sending heat blooming through my chest, my stomach, and lower.
I should be analyzing this. Cataloging it. Maintaining objectivity.
Instead, I’m drowning.
His mouth moves against mine, coaxing, demanding. One hand slides from my jaw into my hair—my hair that’s down for the first time in years, that he wanted to see loose—and his fingers tangle in the waves as he angles my head back, deepening the kiss.
A sound escapes me. Something embarrassingly close to a whimper.
He swallows it. Takes it. Turns it into fuel.
His other hand drops to my lower back, pressing me closer until I can feel the heat of him through the thin silk of my dress. My hands find his chest—when did they move?—and I’m gripping his lapels like an anchor in a storm.
This isn’t performance. This is—
He breaks the kiss. Pulls back just far enough to look at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my breath catch. Surprise. Heat. Something almost like wonder, quickly masked.
“For the cameras,” he murmurs against my lips, so quiet only I can hear.
Then his mouth claims mine again.
The second kiss is different. Deeper. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and when they part—I don’t remember deciding to let them—he takes full advantage.
Tasting. Exploring.
The hand in my hair tightens, tilting my head back further, and I let him. I let him control the angle, the depth, the pace.