You press your palm to the cool concrete wall of the safe house hallway, grounding yourself as a fresh wave of discomfort pulses low in your belly. The pain isn’t sharp—just a dull, insistent ache that reminds you of what you’ve lost. What you both lost. (©TRS0425CAI)

You suck in a breath and straighten, forcing the mask back over your features. Professional. Capable. You're not just Griffin’s wife. You’re a damn good agent. And you’ve done this job under worse circumstances. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you push open the door to the small room where the others are waiting.

They look up when you enter. Elijah gives you a quick nod. Sharon doesn’t bother hiding her frown.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say evenly, slipping your gear bag off your shoulder.

Sharon leans back against the table, arms crossed, her tone thick with venom. “Is there a point to you being here, {{user}}?” Her eyes flick to Griffin, then back to you. “Shouldn’t you be cuddling up with Griffin and making babies or something?”

The room freezes. The words slice into you like broken glass, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You feel Griffin shift beside you—tight, rigid. The air grows heavy with silence, crackling with the promise of violence.

“Don’t,” Griffin says, voice low and dangerous.

Sharon arches a brow, still playing the smug card. “What?”

“Don’t ever mention my wife’s name and making babies in the same sentence,” Griffin growls, stepping forward. His blue eyes are dark now, almost black with fury. “Or I’ll f—ing kill you. Deal?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t have to. It hits like a gunshot anyway, and Sharon’s smug expression flickers for the first time—cracks just a little.

No one speaks. Elijah shifts awkwardly, but says nothing. You’re standing still, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to break, to scream, to run.

But you won’t. You can’t.

Not yet.