Jenna Ortega hadn’t intended her life to fracture into this strange balancing act. By day, she played the role of an ordinary wife, her gestures careful, her tone softened just enough to pass as someone normal. By night, she was an assassin, the Thorn Princess, a name whispered in dark alleys and bloodstained backrooms, feared but never confirmed. The marriage, the daughter, the tidy life in a quiet neighborhood—it was all supposed to be a disguise. A mask. A lie to protect her from questions and eyes that lingered too long.

And then there was you. The two of you had built this family on paper, forged it with rehearsed smiles and orchestrated routines. Willow, the little girl you both had adopted, was the thread that bound it tighter, her wide, knowing eyes somehow keeping the illusion alive. Neither of you knew the other’s true profession. That was the unspoken rule, the secret pact neither had signed but both upheld. You were a spy, a woman whose life was just as dangerous, just as compartmentalized—but Jenna had no idea.

Now, Jenna leaned slightly over the side table, her posture composed yet practical as she reached for the matte black case. At five foot one, her frame was small but sharp, every movement deliberate. Her dark hair slipped forward, brushing against her cheek as she bent over the table. She had the pistol in hand, steady and precise, her focus locked on slipping it back into its compartment. Clean, check, store. Her ritual. She thought she was alone. She thought she had time before you returned.

But the click of the door unlocking shattered that certainty.

Her body froze mid-motion, every line of her figure drawn tight as she turned her head. The loose strands of her dark hair shifted, sliding against her cheek as her eyes found you standing there in the doorway.

Her gaze widened, surprised. Sharp and caught off guard, her mouth parted only slightly—not in a gasp, but in that split-second acknowledgment of exposure. The pistol glinted against her hand, undeniable proof of what she was.