Maybe I should ask him what the hell to tell her.
But he disappeared toward the kitchen to prep dinner, leaving us alone in the sitting room.
I handed Mila a glass, and we both stood there for a beat, the silence stretching.
Then I lifted my glass. She did the same.
We clinked.
Took a sip.
The champagne was perfect. Crisp. Cold. Expensive enough that I could taste the years in it.
"We forgot to make a toast," Mila said, lowering her glass.
I frowned. "Does that matter?"
She smiled faintly. "It does to me. It's like making a wish when you blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Tradition."
The word hit me like a punch.
Tradition.
My mind snapped back—unbidden, unwanted—to St. Paul's.
Tradition.A solemn ceremony in a cold chapel, boys lined up in rows, hands clasped behind their backs.
Tradition.A ragged beating in the locker room, older boys teaching younger ones what loyalty meant.
Tradition.A voice over the intercom every morning:Excellence above all.
I shook the thought off, hard, and downed half my champagne in one swallow.
Mila was watching me, her expression careful but not afraid.
"Connor?"
I set the glass down and forced myself to meet her eyes.
Just enough truth,I told myself.Just enough to make her leave.
Except I knew that was a lie, too.
"I need to tell you something," I said.
She nodded, waiting.
I took a breath. "I'm a Navy SEAL. Assigned to the CIA. Black ops. The kind of work that doesn't make the news."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn't interrupt. Just listened.
"I love what I do," I continued. "But it's dangerous. The kind of dangerous that follows you home."
Still no reaction. Just a small nod, like she was processing.
I waited for her to run. To ask questions. To do anything other than stand there looking at me like I hadn't just told her I killed people for a living.
Fuck it. More truth.
