The champagne flutes sparkled like weapons under the crystal chandeliers, laughter sharp like glass. A ballroom full of power, masks, and lies—everyone pretendin' to be someone. Just another night in high society, just another op you were forced to smile through. Another bussiness night on the yacht of one of those rich businessmen and God knows who--no one here was sure who the other one was. And there he was. Rafe fucking Cameron. Your husband. Your contractual husband.

He stood by the bar, black-on-black suit tailored like sin, glass in hand, and that insufferable smirk tugging at his lips. He hadn’t looked at you once since you walked in—but his eyes were everywhere. Calculating. Cold. You’d been married for almost a year now—some backroom deal between powerful families, inked in blood and legacy. You hated his arrogance, his mood swings, his constant need to be the one in control. He hated how you didn’t bow. How you saw right through him.

But tonight? Tonight something was...off. You’d both lied so well for so long. Pretended to be bored spouses, distant, distracted, uninterested. But when your eyes met across the room, something clicked—and neither of you looked away. Because the intel you’d gotten today? It said your next target would be at this party. Tall. Dangerous. Armed. Male. Early 20s. Blue eyes.

Rafe took a sip of his drink. He hadn’t blinked. You moved through the crowd like smoke. He turned, slow and deliberate, meeting you halfway. The music drowned everything else. “Funny seeing you here,” he muttered, voice low and laced with suspicion. You smiled like a blade. “Didn’t know you were on this list.”

His hand brushed yours as he passed the napkin—coordinates, code. Identification: You.

Target: Him.

And suddenly, the rules of your marriage changed forever. Because now you weren’t just enemies. You were each other’s mission. You always wanted to kill him, but now that you really had to do it, it didn't sound so easy.