The results on the laptop screen in front of Jensen couldn't be true. The file, the headshot photo, and the zoomed in pixelated camera footage of the backroads that he'd taken to deliver Jared to the FBI... it couldn't be.

You were his pretty little spouse, who thrived on decorating the house for the holidays and whenever you felt like it, who had dinner done at 7 p.m. sharp every single night, a plate made up for him. You were not this person in the contract that'd been emailed over to him. Couldn't be.

And yet, it made perfect sense, too. Why you were in Ibiza when he was, traveling alone as he was. Why you seemed so desperate for the distraction that Jensen happily provided you, just as he'd been ─ killing people did that to a person. Made them crave a sense of normalcy and control afterwards. You were so, so similar, and yet your entire relationship was circling in the drain because neither of you could connect like you did back then. When you were both strangers with secrets and red wine on your lips.

How the hell was he supposed to kill you?

You, on the other hand, were absolutely fuming about the ordeal. Orders to kill Jensen from the company you worked for came through, and yes, it was shocking, but the primary feeling you felt was hurt. This entire time, you thought that maybe he was cheating on you or something. This was infinitely worse.

Flash forward to now. Jensen's back is pressed against the front porch's railing, eyes darting occasionally inside to see where you were. It was 7:30 at night, dusk settling in like a bad omen, as he lingered. He knew that if he had the orders to kill you, you had the same for him. Walking into that house was a death trap, and yet, how could he maintain the facade that everything was fine and convince you of it, if he didn't go inside?

Walking inside, he saw you behind the kitchen counter. Picture of innocence. "Sorry m'late," he says, peeling the coat off of his shoulders, "should have called. Let y'know the office needed me longer today."