Elizabeth
I woke up slow.
For once, there were no nightmares, no orders from Adonis, nothing. Just sunlight bleeding through the curtains, soft and gold, like the world had decided to be kind—for once.
I lay there, tangled in sheets, still wearing the black tank from last night, the memory of his jacket around my shoulders so much warmer than it should’ve been.
Noah.
The name alone made my stomach flutter and tighten all at once.
I didn’t do butterflies.
Butterflies were for girls who grew up safe. Who didn’t flinch when someone reached for them too fast.
But last night?
Something had shifted.
He looked at me like I was real. Like I wasn’t just the mask or the weapon or the legacy.
Like I was just… Elizabeth.
I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
Three new messages from Lillian. One from Mary. All from way too early in the morning.
Lillian: SO??? Tell me everything. Don’t leave out the good parts or I’ll show up and demand a live retelling.
Mary: I swear to god if this is finally about him, I need tea and scones IMMEDIATELY.
Lillian: You didn’t run, right?
Lillian: Right???? ??????
I stared at the screen for a second, biting my lip.
Then my fingers moved, almost against my will.
Elizabeth: We went to the rooftop bistro. He told me a story about nearly dying on a bike. I laughed.
Elizabeth: I laughed.
Elizabeth: What the hell is happening to me?
Almost instantly—
Lillian: OH MY GOD OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING
Mary: You’re feeling feelings. Welcome to the dark side. We have wine.
Lillian: Can we please meet today? I need to hear your voice while you admit you like someone. In person. No ghosting. No excuses.
Mary: I’m already clearing my schedule. LUNCH. YOU. ME. HER.
I stared at the screen and laughed under my breath.
A real one.
I typed:
Elizabeth: Fine. Noon. The café near Adonis’s office. I’ll bring my sarcasm; you bring my dignity in a paper bag.
I tossed the phone back on the bed and stood, stretching. Something in my chest felt light. Strange. Not quite happiness… but close enough to make me scared.
Was this what normal girls felt like after a date?
I padded down the hall, bare feet against cold floors, brushing my hair back as I descended the stairs.
But the moment I stepped into the front room—
The feeling shattered.
Like glass in my ribs. Like steel in my spine.
I froze. There, in the center of the room, stood my mother.
Her hair was pinned back, her stance clean and combat-ready, her eyes cold. And at her feet, on his knees, was my father.
Alive. Hands behind his head. A knife pressed against his throat.
“I don’t believe it,” she said calmly.
“You expect me to believe you survived the blast in Berlin? Without a trace? Without a signal? Not a single piece of intel?”
Her voice was stone.
“I think you’re a liar. A spy wearing a dead man’s face.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Hello, Liz,” he said softly, eyes locking with mine.
“You’ve grown.”
My throat tightened.
My heartbeat stopped.
“Mom,” I said carefully, stepping forward. “Lower the knife.”
“No,” she said without blinking.
“Not until he tells me the name of your favorite composer. Not until I’m sure he is who he says he is. I took another step forward.
“Mom,” I said again, more firmly.
“Let me handle this.”
Because even with a blade to his throat, even with blood on his collar and time carved into his face…
He didn’t look scared. He looked like he needed me.
And suddenly, I remembered—The mission. The real reason he came back. My fingers curled into fists. So much for butterflies.
My father. Nathaniel Delacroix. Gone from this world.
Or so I thought. My mother lowered the knife with a slow reluctance, as if she still hoped his skin would peel back to reveal some kind of impostor beneath.
No apologies were exchanged. Not from her, and certainly not from him. That was just how we did things. No warmth. No reunions. Just a recalibration of our lives.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” I said, my voice icy.
He didn’t flinch.
But he looked at me just as he always had—calculating, proud, distant.
As if I were one of his creations, crafted by his own hands.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he replied. “I went dark for a reason.”
He stood tall, exuding that same unshakeable authority, even in a half-bleeding combat zone or standing trial behind closed doors. I stared at the man I believed I had killed.
“I watched you fall limp. You were alive all this time? Why now? Why return now?”
“There’s a mission,” he stated, devoid of pleasantries or apologies. Just orders. “High-priority. Coded Theta-Seven Black. Off-books. Global threat.”
“Once again, why now?” I pressed, frustration bubbling up. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one I trust to finish it,” he said plainly. “And because I trained you for this. You were made for this, Elizabeth.”
A familiar ache settled into my ribs, that relentless voice in my mind murmuring: Purpose equals worth. Obedience equals survival.
“You could’ve sent the data to the Agency,” my mother interjected, arms crossed. “You didn’t need to come here.”
“It’s not the data I need. It’s her.”
His gaze shifted back to me.
“And him.”
My blood turned to ice.
“What?”
“Noah,”
he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been watching him. I know what he’s capable of. I need him on this op.”
Something inside me twisted.
“You’ve been watching him?”
He nodded, unfazed.
“Of course. You’re not exactly discreet about who you keep close. I had to vet him.”
He stepped closer.
“He’s a risk. He makes you vulnerable. You feel too much around him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,”
I shot back, defensive. He tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
“Don’t I?”
Then, as if he could see right through me, he said the very thing I had been avoiding since that rooftop dinner.
“Noah is your weakness.”
And just like that—
All the warmth, the hope, the almost from the night before—
Froze in an instant, because deep down, I knew he was right.
I had spent one night letting my guard down, one night laughing like I wasn’t trained to be stone, and the moment that mask cracked, the past slithered back through the walls like smoke. Straightening my spine, I folded my arms.
“Give me the files,” I demanded. “Mission briefing. Targets. Timeline.”
He smiled. Not in a kind way. More like a man who had just won a battle no one else could see.
“I knew you’d understand,” he said, pulling out a small encrypted drive from his coat and handing it to me.
“You’ll need time to prepare. We move in seventy-two hours.”
“I’ll assemble a team,” I replied, my voice hard as steel. “And I’ll talk to Noah. But he goes in as an asset, not a… liability.”
Those words burned as they left my lips. But I said them anyway.
Because if I didn’t—
If I allowed myself to feel anything real—
I wouldn’t survive this mission. Not this one. Not with him on the line.
My father nodded once in acknowledgment, and as I turned away, I tried to ignore the echo of Noah’s laughter in my mind, and the painful echo of my heart breaking all over again.