He opens his mouth—no doubt to protest or explain something I’ll never care to hear—but before he can speak, the sharp click of the door handle slices through the room. His head jerks toward the sound, and my eyes follow.
Cane steps inside like he owns the air itself, then stops dead in the middle of the room. His gaze lands on the idiot on the couch.
“I didn’t know you were expecting guests,” Julian stammers. He rises quickly, extending his hand toward Cane like a nervous intern. “Hello. I’m?—”
“He’s my fuck buddy,” I interrupt smoothly before he can destroy the little illusion I’ve built for myself. I’ve already settled on Julian, and I won’t let him ruin it. If he says his real name, I might actually lose control, and that would get messy fast.
Cane freezes for a second, his expression unreadable, except for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he bites down on it. Then, his gaze drops to the dark stain between Julian’s legs, and I catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Julian retracts his hand awkwardly, clearing his throat loud enough to make me grin. I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes, slicing through the heavy silence.
“How rude of you,” I say, pushing off the wall and sauntering toward Cane. Snaking an arm around his shoulder, I lean close enough to breathe in his sharp cologne—that dark, masculine scent that always clings to him. “Forgive my father,” I purr. “He has a condition.”
I can feel Cane’s stare burning into the side of my face, and it takes everything in me not to burst into laughter. My lip trembles with the effort, but I keep my expression steady, feigning pity as I turn my eyes back to Julian.
“It’s dementia,” I whisper solemnly.
Cane exhales through his nose. “Would you give us a moment?” he asks evenly.
I roll my eyes, the last thread of my amusement unraveling. He’s always so serious when he walks into my chaos.
“Why don’t you wait in the corridor, Julian?” I suggest, nodding toward the door. He stares at me for a long moment, his expression a swirl of confusion, shame, and disbelief, then finally clears his throat and nods.
He bolts out of the room in a rush, leaving behind a heavy cloud of cheap perfume that makes me wince. The scent clings to the air like bad spray, and just like that, the uninvited, inevitable thought slices through my mind.
Nothing and no one can ever replace Dante. Not his voice, not his touch, not the way his scent wraps around me like a secret. Woodsy, with a trace of musk and something else—something that belongs only to him. My mind can recreate it just enough to torture me, and the ache that settles low in my stomach is almost comforting in its cruelty.
I wonder what he’s doing now. What he’s thinking.
Though that last one isn’t really a question.
Of course he’s thinking aboutme. How could he not?
Especially after what we did.
“Who is this?” Cane’s voice cuts through my thoughts, steady but edged, pulling me back into the room.
I untangle my arm from around his shoulders, stepping aside with a small shrug. “My boyfriend,” I lie, the word slipping out with a bitterness that tastes like rust.
His brows shoot up to his hairline, surprise flashing briefly across his face. “Boyfriend?”
I shoot him a sharp look, a smirk ghosting on my lips. “Is that so hard to believe? That I finally found someone who truly loves me for who I am?”
His expression softens into amusement, one brow lifting as he tilts his head, giving me that familiaroh, pleaselook that makes my blood heat with annoyance. “How many different ways of killing him has your mind gone through already?”
I frown, exhaling a sigh of frustration that echoes faintly in the quiet room.
He knows me too damn well.
“You’re no fun,” I mutter, folding my arms. “And I suppose there’s a great reason you decided to interrupt us in a heated moment?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat, and the golden band on his ring finger catches the harsh light. Bright and polished, it gleams, stinging my eyes more than I want to admit.
Cane. The man who managed to build himself a family, to weave a perfect little lie out of the ruins of truth. His wife and child don’t know who he really is.
They think he works for U.S. intelligence, a respectable man serving a noble cause. But in reality, Cane is a ghost within ghosts—a double, maybe even a triple or quadruple agent. He’s the kind of man who can reinvent himself in a breath, his mind always adjusting, molding, calculating. A chameleon in an endless masquerade.
That’s all he’s ever done—wear masks.
