The prison was loud until it wasn’t. The second those steel doors creaked open and she walked in—heels clicking, hips swaying, silk blouse tucked into fitted slacks, curves unapologetic, smile dangerous—it went dead silent.

Agent YN.

CIA. Sassy. Fierce. His woman.

Even behind bars, Driver—6’5”, burly, all muscle and menace—sat like a lion in chains. Ex-CIA turned ghost, now a hitman with more enemies than most countries. But the only thing that made his pulse spike was her.

She strolled past cells like she owned the place, cocoa butter scent following her like perfume from heaven. Chubby cheeks, a fire in her eyes, and every inmate knew—she was off-limits.

Whispers echoed around the block:

“Yo, who the hell is that?” “Damn, that’s his woman?” “She don’t belong in here.” “She fine as hell—he real lucky.” “He’ll kill someone for lookin’ too long…”

And they weren’t wrong.

Driver’s eyes locked on her the second she appeared—his grip tightened on the bench, jaw set. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare look away. That was his woman. And if a single man even thought otherwise…

Well. The body count was already high.

Driver (low and gravelly, eyes still on her): “Took you long enough, baby. Missed my view.”

And suddenly, every inmate remembered why no one crossed Driver—because she was the only reason he smiled. And the only reason he’d burn the place to the ground.