"Archer," Fitz says sharply. "With me."
I follow him and Marissa toward the exit, but she's not looking at me anymore. Distance has slid between us like armor. The warmth from last night, the promise of figuring things out after the mission, the fragile trust we'd been building—all of it gone behind walls I've seen her use before, always against everyone else but never against me. Until now.
We reach the vehicles outside, and Fitz assigns positions. Logan will handle Moreau's transport and interrogation. Fitz is heading back to Opus Noir to coordinate with the team. Which leaves Marissa and me in the same vehicle heading back to the safe house.
The silence in the car is suffocating.
I want to say something, want to explain that I know what Moreau was doing, that I don't believe his bullshit, that thedoubt was just a flicker and I hate myself for even letting it cross my mind.
But how do I explain that without confirming I doubted her at all?
"Marissa—"
"Don't." Her voice is quiet, controlled, and completely devoid of emotion. "Whatever you're about to say, just don't."
"He was playing me. Trying to create division before the gala."
"I know what he was doing." She stares straight ahead, not looking at me. "And it worked."
"It didn't?—"
"I saw your face, Archer." Now she turns, and her eyes are harder than I've ever seen them. "When I came back across that lobby, I saw you look at me. Saw you question whether I'm real or just a cover story."
"For a moment," I admit, because lying to her now would be worse. "For the briefest moment, his words got through. But I know better?—"
"Do you?" She cuts me off, and there's pain beneath the controlled mask. "Because I've spent my entire career becoming what people need me to be. Playing roles. Earning trust so I can betray it later. And maybe Moreau's right. Maybe you don't know which parts of me are real and which parts are the cover."
"I know you," I say, and I mean it with everything in me.
"You know what I've shown you." Her voice cracks slightly before she controls it. "And right now, I can't tell if that's enough."
The rest of the drive passes in silence. When we reach the safe house, she's out of the vehicle before it fully stops, heading inside without looking back. I follow, but she goes straight down to the ops center, pulling up the secure video feed from Opus Noir. Logan's team has Moreau in an interrogation room there,and Fitz is overseeing from the command center above the club. She becomes all business—focused and unreachable behind walls I can't breach.
The day bleeds into evening as we watch the feeds from the safe house. Moreau's interrogation yields nothing useful—he's too experienced, too well-trained to break under standard questioning. Fitz considers enhanced measures but decides the intelligence value doesn't justify the international incident it would create. Moreau remains in secure detention at Opus Noir, and every time the camera catches his face on our monitors, he's smiling that knowing smile.
Because he won even while losing.
Marissa and I work side by side reviewing gala preparations, going over security protocols, coordinating with the embedded team. We're polite. Efficient. We communicate everything that needs to be said for the mission, and the silence between us grows heavier with each passing hour.
The gala looms close. Time to protect a young child from an organization that doesn't negotiate, time to stop the Iron Choir from whatever they're really planning, and time to figure out how to repair what I just broke.
Marissa heads upstairs without a word. I follow after a few minutes, giving her space, but when I reach the bedroom, she's already claimed the far side of the bed, still dressed in her tactical clothing like armor she refuses to remove.
"Marissa—"
"I'm exhausted, Archer." She doesn't turn to look at me. "Can we just sleep?"
I want to push, want to make her talk to me, make her understand that I know what we have is real, that Moreau's poison didn't take root, but she's already shutting down and pushing now will only drive her further away.
So I settle on the other side of the bed, not touching her, and stare at the ceiling in the darkness. At Opus Noir, Moreau sits in detention, still smiling. The gala approaches fast. And here in this bed, Marissa is close enough to touch but completely unreachable.
I let doubt show on my face for a moment, and I might have destroyed everything that matters.
17
MARISSA
Morning light filters through the bedroom windows, and I wake to find Archer's side of the bed already empty. Relief washes through me before guilt can follow. I don't have the energy to navigate the silence between us right now, don't have the capacity to see regret in his eyes and pretend it doesn't affect me.
