Page 55 of North

She searched his face, then nodded slowly.

“First, I love you. More than my life. More than anything.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Which is why I can’t lie to you anymore. Not with our child…” His hand drifted to her still-flat stomach.

He walked her over to the sofa and knelt in front of her.

“I’m not who you think I am.” The truth felt foreign on his tongue after so long. “The business degree, the consulting work—it’s all a cover. I work for the United States government. The CIA.”

She went very still. But she didn’t pull her hands from his.

“I’ve spent four years lying to you. Protecting you by keeping you in the dark. But I just came from a funeral…” His voice broke. “The wife of…my partner. And her little boy. They died because York made the same choice I did—tried to balance this life with love.”

“Oh, Alexander.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.” She reached for him.

“I can’t—” He met her eyes. “I won’t risk that happening to you. To our child.” He took a breath. “I’ve been…I’ve been planning this. For a while now…”

“Planning what?”

He moved to sit beside her on the sofa. “I bought a house. On Crete. Remote, private. And I have enough money to last us…well, for a while. A long while.” He took her hands again. “We can disappear. Start over. Build a life without lies.”

“You want to leave Budapest?”

“I want to build a life with you. A safe life. For…us.” He covered her hand with his. “Just say yes.”

She pulled away slowly, frowning, then stood.

And his heart nearly stopped beating. But she only walked to the window, touching the peonies as she passed. Below, children still played in the courtyard, their voices floating up like music.

“I always knew.” She didn’t turn around. “Not what, exactly. But something. The way you’d disappear. The calls that would wake you at night. How you’d sometimes look at me like…” She pressed her hand to the glass. “Like you were memorizing my face before you lost it.”

Oh.

“It was just like in a John le Carré novel.”

Alexander moved behind her, close enough to touch but not touching her. Outside, the linden trees threw long shadows across the courtyard. An old woman dragged her shopping cart across the cobblestones. A teenager practiced violin scales, the notes drifting through an open window.

“There were signs.” Her voice softened. “That Christmas your phone rang seventeen times during dinner. The scar on your shoulder you said came from a skiing accident, but you hate skiing. The way you scan every room before you relax.”

She turned, and there were tears in her eyes. “The nightmares you won’t talk about.”

His throat closed. “I wanted to tell you so many times.”

“Was it always a game?”

“Never a game. Not with you.”

She touched his face, her fingers tracing the worry lines at his eyes. “I believe you.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I’m terrified. But not of you.” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “Of losing you. Of raising this child alone.”

“That’s why we have to go.” He covered her hand with his. “I’ve seen what this life does to families.” His voice caught. “I won’t bury you. Either of you.”

She crossed to their old secretary desk. “My passport is in here somewhere.” Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled open drawers. “I’ll need my medical records.”

“No.” He caught her wrist gently. “Nothing traceable. We’ll get new passports, new names.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “We’re not coming back, are we?”