Chapter 1: The Unwanted Partner

Chapter 1: The Unwanted Partner

The sterile white of the briefing room was a familiar comfort to Dr. Evelyn Reed. It was a space of logic, data, and irrefutable facts—her natural habitat. On the large screen at the head of the table, the culmination of two years of her life’s work glowed: a complex web of connections, financial flows, and behavioral patterns all pointing to one man. Julian Croft. Philanthropist, innovator, and, according to her exhaustive analysis, one of the most prolific and untouchable arms dealers on the globe.

“This is airtight, Reed.” Director Evans, a man whose face seemed permanently carved from granite, gestured towards the screen. “Your profile on Croft, his routines, his psychological voids… you’ve given us the first real key we’ve had in a decade.”

A surge of quiet pride warmed Evie’s chest. This was her victory. She had lived and breathed Croft, tracing his digital and financial footprints until she knew him better than his own mother. She’d found the vulnerability: Croft’s obsession with the image of stability and legacy. He was actively seeking a new investment manager for his legitimate enterprises, someone to bring into his inner circle. The caveat, discovered by Evie after cross-referencing three thousand hours of intercepted communications with social media data, was that Croft, a man who valued family above all else, would only consider a married man for such a high-trust position.

“He wants a power couple,” Evie stated, her voice crisp and clear. “Someone who reflects his own public image. Stable, successful, devoted. It’s a psychological blind spot. He’ll trust the image before he scrutinizes the man.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, a familiar motion when she was laying out a conclusion. “The right operative, with the right partner, can walk right through his front door.”

“Exactly,” Evans said, his gaze sweeping the room before landing back on her. “Which is why you’re going in.”

The warmth in her chest turned to ice. “Sir? My place is here, processing the intel from the field. I’m an analyst, not an operative.”

“You’re the expert on Croft. You designed the legend for the couple who can get inside. You know every nuance. You’re the only one who can play the part of the devoted, brilliant wife convincingly.” Evans’s tone left no room for argument. A thrill, equal parts terror and excitement, shot through her. This was it. A chance to prove her methods worked not just on paper, but in the real world. A chance to finally put the ghost of her past failure—a case where a reckless agent had ignored her profile and gotten two civilians killed—to rest.

“Who’s my partner?” she asked, her mind already racing, building the profile of the ideal agent. He’d need to be cool-headed, intelligent, a quick study, capable of subtlety and precision. Someone who respected the plan.

Evans’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “There’s only one agent with the deep-cover skills, improvisation, and sheer nerve to pull this off. He’s the best we have at becoming someone else.”

The briefing room door swung open before Evans could say the name, but Evie knew. She knew from the sudden drop in temperature, from the way the air crackled with a chaotic energy that set her teeth on edge.

Damien Cross filled the doorway.

He wasn’t just a man; he was a weather system. Tall and powerfully built, his worn leather jacket and dark t-shirt did little to hide the coiled muscle beneath. His dark hair was a mess, as if he’d just run his hands through it in frustration or dragged himself out of a back-alley brawl. A faint, white scar cut a line along his rugged jaw, and his piercing grey eyes—the color of a storm-tossed sea—swept the room with dismissive arrogance. And then there was the smirk. A permanent, knowing curve of his lips that made Evie’s hands clench into fists at her sides.

He was everything she despised: chaos in human form, a blunt instrument in a world that required a scalpel. His redacted file was legendary, whispered about in the agency’s halls. “The Demon,” they called him. A ghost who got results, but left a trail of broken protocols and collateral damage in his wake.

“Cross,” Evans acknowledged with a nod. “Meet Dr. Reed. She’s the architect of this operation. You’ll be her husband.”

Damien’s stormy gaze finally landed on Evie. He raked her up and down, a slow, insolent appraisal that felt like a violation. From her sensible heels to her tailored blazer to the way she held herself with rigid control. His smirk widened, but it held no humor. It was pure mockery.

“Her husband?” he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “You’re kidding me, Evans. I work alone. I’m not playing house, and I’m definitely not babysitting some analyst with a hero complex.”

Evie’s spine stiffened. “I assure you, Agent Cross, I have no need for a babysitter,” she said, her tone as cold as she could make it. “I need a partner who can follow a meticulously crafted plan. Something your file suggests you are pathologically incapable of.”

A dark flicker of something—annoyance? respect?—flashed in his eyes before being swallowed by contempt. He took a step into the room, his presence shrinking the space around him. He smelled faintly of leather, rain, and something metallic, like spent gunpowder.

“Your ‘meticulous plan’ gets you a gold star in class, Doc,” he sneered, leaning a hand on the briefing table, his knuckles white. “Out there, in the real world, plans go to hell. And when they do, I’m the one who has to get us out, while you’re probably trying to remember a footnote from one of your textbooks. You’ll break a nail and get us both killed.”

He gestured at her with a flick of his chin. “Look at her. She’s wound tighter than a watch spring. Croft will smell the fear on her from a mile away.” The insult was designed to undermine her, to paint her as weak and inexperienced. It was a classic dominance play, and worse, it landed squarely on her deepest insecurity: that her intellect wasn't enough, that in the field, she would be a liability.

Rage, hot and sharp, sliced through her composure. “My ‘fear’, as you so eloquently put it, is a healthy respect for a dangerous mission. It’s what keeps agents from getting cocky and making fatal mistakes. Unlike your brand of reckless arrogance, which I’ve seen get people killed before.” The words were out before she could stop them, a direct reference to the failed operation that haunted her.

The smirk vanished from Damien’s face. His eyes turned to flint. The air between them grew thick and heavy, charged with a sudden, violent animosity. He pushed off the table, taking a step toward her. For a terrifying second, Evie thought he might actually get physical.

“Enough!” Director Evans’s voice boomed through the room, cracking the tension like a whip. “Both of you. This isn't a debate. It's an order.”

He fixed them both with a glare that could peel paint. “Cross, Reed’s intel is the only reason you have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting near Croft. You will respect that. Reed, Cross is the only one who can sell the role of a man who belongs in Croft’s world of sharks. You will trust his field instincts. You are no longer Reed and Cross. You are Alexander and Isabelle Blackwood. He’s a maverick investment manager poached from a rival firm. She’s his sharp, sophisticated wife with a background in art history. You are a devoted, untouchable power couple. You will sell it, you will live it, and you will not, under any circumstances, break cover. Am I understood?”

A sullen “Yes, sir,” was grunted from Damien.

“Yes, sir,” Evie bit out, her jaw tight.

“Good,” Evans said, his tone softening slightly. “Your new life starts now.”

An aide stepped forward and handed them each a slim, black folder and a single, sleek keycard. Evie opened her folder, her eyes scanning the top sheet.

ASSET ASSIGNMENT: THE ORION, PENTHOUSE 4201 COVER LEGEND: BLACKWOOD, ALEXANDER & ISABELLE DURATION: INDEFINITE

She flipped the page. A floor plan of a sprawling luxury penthouse appeared. A gourmet kitchen, a massive living area with floor-to-ceiling windows, a home office, two bathrooms… and a single, enormous master bedroom.

A shadow fell over her shoulder. Damien was leaning in, his heat a palpable presence at her back, making the fine hairs on her neck stand on end. His gaze was fixed on the floor plan in her hands.

His low, rumbling voice was directly beside her ear, a taunting whisper that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine.

“One bedroom, Doctor?”

She felt, more than saw, his infuriating smirk return.

“Looks like we’re getting cozy.”