𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The streets of Beverly Hills were quiet at six a.m. The air was cool and heavy with that pale gray fog that clung to lawns and driveways, softening everything it touched. You moved fast, jacket pulled tight, sneakers silent against the wet pavement as you slipped down the block toward the car waiting by the curb.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all you ever had. Fifteen minutes to tell your handler everything you’d learned that week—what Lyle had said about the money, about his father, about that night he didn’t like to talk about but somehow always circled back to anyway. You spoke quietly, fast, while your handler scribbled in the drivers seat.

Every word was evidence. Every word was a step closer to the truth.

But even as you talked, your mind wasn’t here—it was back in the house you’d just left. Back in the bed you shouldn’t have been in. You could still feel the warmth of his arm draped over your waist, still smell the faint trace of his cologne on your skin. And with every secret you gave away, your chest tightened. Because Lyle wasn’t supposed to feel real to you. He was supposed to be a name in a file. A target.

“Stay focused,” your handler said sharply, dragging you back. “You’re close. Just keep him talking. We need something concrete.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I know,” you whispered. “I will.”

You got out of the car before you could think too long about what you’d just promised.

The walk back to the mansion was short, maybe five minutes, but it felt longer—like the world had gone still, waiting for you to slip. The gate door opened after you typed in the password, the rising sun shining an orange light across the palm trees and the pavement. The house stood silent, massive, too beautiful for the things that had happened inside it.

You crept through the side door, careful not to wake anyone. The air smelled faintly like coffee and cologne, like money and dust and something that didn’t quite fade no matter how often the maids cleaned. The living room was still dark except for the dim glow from the aquarium.

You exhaled when you saw him—Lyle, asleep on the bed where you’d left him. He was shirtless, a blanket half-fallen to the floor, one arm draped over his chest. The faint rise and fall of his breathing was the only sound in the room.

He looked peaceful. Normal. Like someone who couldn’t possibly have blood on his hands.

You stood there a moment too long, watching him, your pulse uneven. This was the part that always made you hesitate—the way he made it hard to remember which side you were on. The way his eyes softened when he looked at you, like he saw something worth holding onto.

You forced yourself to move. Jacket on the chair. Shoes by the door. Everything where it belonged.

In the bathroom, you turned on the faucet and let the cold water run over your hands. You splashed your face, staring into the mirror, trying to find the cop in your reflection. The one who didn’t get attached. The one who didn’t lose focus. But the woman staring back looked softer, weaker, like someone who’d started to believe the things he said about his father, about fear, about love.

A floorboard creaked behind you.

“Where the hell were you?”