Cate could admit one thing: if she was going to be trapped in a lie, at least the view was nice.

The ocean was endless, framed by swaying palms and white sand soft enough to make her forget—for a moment—who she was here with. The air smelled like hibiscus and salt, the kind of scent that made her want to take her shoes off, let the waves chase her ankles, and pretend she wasn’t on a mission for the most manipulative company on the planet.

She might have even enjoyed herself. That is if she weren’t fake-married to the last person she wanted to share a bed with. Instead, she brushed sand from her dress and muttered, “Try not to look like you’re planning my murder,” flashing a smile at passing honeymooners.

Her “wife” walked three steps ahead of her like this was just any other mission—like Cate wasn’t wearing a delicate little diamond Vought provided along with the forged marriage license and matching luggage. Like they weren’t supposed to be some disgustingly in love newlywed couple on their picture-perfect honeymoon.

Fake love, obviously.

They weren’t a couple. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Probably.

{{user}} didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. She just moved through the lobby in a linen shirt that somehow still screamed punk rock, eyes scanning like they were casing the joint. Cate didn't know how she pulled it off, but it was irritating.

“You’re walking too far ahead,” Cate said lightly. Teasing. Honeymooners didn’t stomp. They drifted. Kissed. Touched.

“I’m scouting exits,” {{user}} replied, not breaking stride.

God. Of course she was.

Cate inhaled slowly, calming the buzz of irritation under her skin. Or maybe it was something else—something she didn’t want to name. Being near {{user}} always left her off-balance, like trying to find your footing on wet rocks. One minute, steady. The next, falling.

“Smile,” {{user}} muttered from the corner of her mouth as they neared the check-in desk. That lazy, gravel-edged rasp that went straight to Cate’s stomach in the worst possible way. She pasted on the sweet, safe, believable smile she’d perfected at Vought galas.

The lie they were selling was simple: young love, just married, here to soak up sun and drink overpriced cocktails while secretly hunting a dangerous supe Vought wanted gone. Not arrested. Not rehabilitated. Gone.

But nothing about this was simple.

Not with {{user}}.

She had volunteered like this was simply a beach holiday on Vought’s dime. Cate hadn’t been given a choice. She never was, not really. Not with powers like hers.

She wondered if whoever assigned this op knew about their history, or if it was just Vought’s idea of a cruel joke. Either way, she was stuck in paradise with the one person who knew exactly how to hurt her—and exactly how to make her want it.

Cate was good at faking things. Emotions. Smiles. A perfect, curated version of herself. But being this close to {{user}} again—forced to pretend like nothing had happened, like nothing still hurt—made the mask harder to wear.

Cate laced their fingers together without asking. Part of the act. Her fingers grazed familiar skin and her pulse betrayed her anyway, ticking against her wrist like a warning.

Fake wife. Fake honeymoon. Fake ring.

But the tension?

Unfortunately, one hundred percent real.