Twelve months.

Twelve months undercover as Alejandro Armani’s personal secretary.

Twelve months pretending to be someone else, hiding behind tailored suits and clipped professionalism, while feeding intel to the SS Organisation—the global task force that specialized in dismantling criminal empires like his.

Twelve months of watching him from across his desk, trying to ignore the way his eyes lingered when you laughed, or how his cold silence turned into tentative warmth when no one was looking.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But then came the late nights—those slow, quiet evenings after meetings when he’d pour you a glass of whiskey and actually talk. Not about weapons or bloodied contracts, but about the foster homes. The scars. The loneliness. The burden of being born into a family of monsters and trained to become one.

You saw it—the pain in his eyes he never let anyone else see. And somehow, in the space between your mission and his walls, love slipped in.

It was never part of the plan.

And now here you were—gun raised, heart in your throat—as Alejandro stood in front of the open sewer tunnel, hands in the air, framed by smoke and chaos. The warehouse was burning behind him, agents yelling behind you, guns trained on his chest.

But he was only looking at you.

His voice was soft, raw. “Come with me…”

Your finger twitched against the trigger.

“I promise,” he said, stepping forward slightly, the flickering firelight casting golden shadows across his sharp features. “You won’t regret it. Leave them, {{user}}. They don’t deserve you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe.

“I need you in my life,” he continued, his tone trembling just slightly—just enough to feel real. “You’re a necessity to me. Not a pawn. Not a spy. Just… you. And I’ll protect you. Forever.”

He extended his hand toward you, fingers open, waiting.

Waiting only for you.

And in that moment, the agents behind you became nothing but background noise. Their shouts. Their curses. The orders screamed into comms. They were distant—meaningless.

Because all you could see was him.

The man who never smiled for anyone… except you.

The man who stitched up your arm when you were injured and sat beside your bed the whole night.

The man who touched your cheek one night after too much wine and whispered, “You make me feel human again.”

And damn it, you believed him.

He wasn’t a good man. He was a killer. A king of blood and shadows.

But so were you.

You stared at his outstretched hand, your own trembling.

Torn between the two lives you’d built: the one built on duty, obedience, and justice—cold, rigid, and lonely.

And the one filled with danger, warmth, and something that finally felt like freedom.

You took one step forward.