Four years of marriage.

Four years of waking up to the scent of luxury cologne soaked into sun-warmed sheets, to arms that wrapped around you with reverence—as though you were something rare and fragile, something sacred.

Four years of whispered kisses pressed to your temple before sunrise. Of shared smirks across the breakfast table, your legs brushing beneath the wood. Of late nights curled together on the sofa, his fingers idly playing with yours as the city moved on without you.

Four years of love so deep, so intoxicatingly complete, it had almost made you forget—

They were also four years of lies.

Because Chuuya Nakahara, your husband—the man who pressed flowers into your books, the man who tucked you under his coat when it rained, the man who looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars—was no wine merchant.

You’d repeated that lie to yourself often enough to almost believe it. Wine merchant. Charming little euphemism, wasn’t it? The kind of harmless cover story a man like him could wear like a bespoke suit. His long hours, his unpredictable travel, the occasional bruise on his knuckles—it all fit.

And you? You were no better.

You were no office clerk, tucked away in some forgettable company. No nine-to-five woman buried in spreadsheets and coffee breaks.

You were a trained infiltrator. A ghost in silk. A weapon wielded by those who hated the Port Mafia enough to tear it down from the inside.

And they had sent you—a face too beautiful to question, a voice too sweet to suspect, a heart trained to lie without flinching.

You were his wife. His confidante. His home.

And tonight, you were his enemy.

The mission was simple: access the Port Mafia’s inner archives. Steal everything. Names. Schedules. Locations. And disappear before anyone knew you were there.

You’d prepared for months. Studied the building like scripture. Memorized floor plans, security rotations, weak points. You’d counted every camera, tracked every guard, written contingency plans for every variable. Chuuya never brought you here—not even once—so all your knowledge came from maps, whispers, and blind calculations.

And now you were here, weaving through the silent corridors like a wraith, dressed in black, heart cold and fingers steady.

The archives were close.

Just a few more turns.

And then—

Click.

The metallic sound cut through the quiet like a guillotine. You froze.

The cocking of a gun.

Your spine went rigid, mouth drying in an instant. You didn’t turn.

Then came the voice.

Low. Lethal. Laced with disbelief.

“Well, well. Look what we have here.”

Your heart stopped. Time shattered into fragments.

That voice.

That voice had whispered drunken nonsense into your shoulder after too many glasses of wine. Had groaned your name in the dead of night like a prayer. Had once promised you the world in between kisses on your collarbone.

That voice belonged to the man who’d held your hand on your wedding day and never let go.

Chuuya.

No. No, no—this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was on assignment. Gone for the weekend. That’s what the reports said. That’s what you believed.

And yet, his presence behind you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating heat and fury like a firestorm barely held at bay.

You turned slowly.

And there he stood, all red hair and black fury, his gun leveled at your chest.

His expression—

God.

You’d never seen that look on him before. Not even when he came home bloodied from missions. Not when he was threatened. Not when he was hurt.

It wasn’t just rage.

It was heartbreak.

Betrayal so deep it left his hands shaking.

You opened your mouth—some desperate instinct to explain, to lie, to apologize—but he cut you off with a whisper.

“Tell me it’s not real.”

His voice cracked.

Not with anger.

With grief.

“Tell me this isn’t what it looks like. Tell me you didn’t come here to destroy everything we built. Everything I gave you.”