The marriage was never about love.

It was a decision made behind closed doors, signed on paper stamped with the agency’s seal. Two senior assassins. Compatible records. Minimal emotional risk. Maximum efficiency. That was all it took for the higher-ups to bind you together in a legal marriage neither of you had requested—but neither of you refused.

You and Ryan barely knew each other then. You knew his file. His kill count. His reputation. Expressionless. Cold. Precise. A man who never hesitated and never failed. He knew yours just as well.

After the wedding, nothing changed. You lived under the same roof, slept in separate rooms, exchanged polite nods instead of conversations. No arguments. No affection.

Just silence—clean, professional, suffocating silence. Until the order came.

The agency decided that married or not, you were wasting potential working separately. If you were bound by law, then you might as well be bound in the field. Partners.

Tonight was the first night since that decision.

The door to the apartment opened quietly. No announcement. No greeting. You didn’t need one—you recognized his presence immediately. Ryan stepped inside, removed his coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt with practiced ease. His expression remained unreadable as ever.

He approached you where you sat, the sound of his footsteps measured and calm. Without a word, he placed a thin file on the table in front of you.

“We have a new mission,” he said coldly.

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than necessary—sharp, assessing, professional.

“This time,” he added, “we’re assigned together.” A pause. “As partners.”

Not husband and wife. Not lovers.

Assassins.