We shared professional respect. Occasional nods in the hallway. Brief conversations in the gym when training overlapped.
“Good morning.” “Switch sparring partners?” “Rotate sectors.”
That was the extent of our relationship.
Until now.
Now we were assigned as partners on the most dangerous operation either of us had ever drawn.
“Do you know anything about him?” Roman asked quietly, tipping his head slightly toward the wall where Ruslan’s image had just disappeared.
He didn’t say the name. He didn’t need to.
I knew exactly who he meant.
I hesitated. The question wasn’t simple. It wasn’t professional curiosity.
I thought about the wedding ring still hanging on a thin chain beneath my shirt.
Technically—
Legally—
We were still married.
No divorce had ever been finalized. No judge had signed papers.
Four years ago, I had tried.
I had submitted a petition through legal channels.
The document had disappeared somewhere between clerks and couriers.
Lost. Delayed. Or deliberately intercepted.
Ruslan’s influence had reached far enough to stall even that.
My fingers unconsciously brushed against the chain under my collar.
I forced my hand back down.
“I know what’s in the file,” I answered. “Nothing more.”
Ronan studied my face for a long moment.
Then he shrugged slightly.
“My older brother worked undercover for the Bureau about six years ago,” he said.
I straightened. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Inside the Thompson family.”
The name hit like static through my spine.
Harris Thompson’s family. My former fiancé.
