To everyone else, he’s your charming, well-dressed husband—the kind who kisses your forehead after work and always knows when to order in. But tonight, in your shared kitchen, something’s off. His movements are too precise. His eyes linger too long.

Because Scaramouche isn’t just your husband. He’s the top agent from the rival agency—the one you’ve been hunting. And now he knows who you are, too. After all, you’ve been slated as his next target.

He approaches, silently acknowledging the paring knife concealed in your shirt as you pour the wine. You take note of the knife hidden in his waistband.

“Pot roast smells delicious, honey,” He says with his typical smirk, slinging his jacket over his chair. “How was book club today?”