I reach into my pocket, pull out the room key, the small piece of plastic that granted me access to the Lover's Loft with its tactically inadvisable heart-shaped bed. I place it in her palm, careful not to let my fingers brush hers, knowing that any contact will make this harder than it already is.
Derek watches with undisguised satisfaction, still filming, capturing this moment of victory for whatever petty use he has planned.
I want to break his phone. Break his face. Break every smug assumption he has ever made about what Colletta deserves.
But she has given me an order.
And I follow orders, even when they destroy me.
"Your sister's cake structural integrity should hold through tomorrow evening," I tell Colletta, focusing on practical matters because anything else will crack the discipline I am barely maintaining. "The reinforcement beams I installed can support the full weight distribution. She will have her cake."
Colletta nods jerkily, not meeting my eyes, tears tracking down her cheeks in the fading light.
I turn to Derek. "If you harm her further," I say, very quietly, very clearly, "professionally or otherwise, you will discover that contract termination does not equal immunity from consequence."
"Is that a threat?" he sneers, though his voice wavers slightly.
"It is information," I correct. "Tactical data for your future planning."
Then I turn and walk away from her, from the vineyard, from the heart-shaped bed and the mission that became something I still do not have words for. My boots crunch against the gravel path, each step measured and controlled, the same way I have been trained to withdraw from hostile territory.
Behind me I can hear Derek's voice, muffled and triumphant, saying something about "good riddance" and "back to reality."
I do not hear Colletta's response.
I focus on the path ahead, on the parking lot where my vehicle waits, on the logistics of departure. Pack my gear. Return to my apartment. File the contract as completed, payment received, client satisfied.
Except the client is not satisfied.
And neither am I.
The hotel lobby is mostly empty when I enter, just a few wedding guests lingering by the bar, voices low and relaxed. No one looks at me twice, the large orc in the too-tight suit, moving through their world like a shadow passing through light.
The Lover's Loft feels wrong without her chaotic energy filling it. Too quiet. Too neat except for the explosion of her suitcase contents across the chair where she attempted to "organize" her outfits this morning.
I pack methodically, folding each garment with military precision, placing my gear back into the tactical duffel I brought. My loincloths. My backup boots. The concealed weapons I did not mention in the contract terms.
The tuxedo t-shirt goes on top, the one she said made me look "like a bouncer at the world's saddest prom" before dissolving into that nervous laughter that makes her whole face light up.
I seal the bag.
The room key sits on the nightstand where I left it.
I should take it to the front desk, inform them of the early departure, and settle any outstanding charges.
Instead I stand motionless in the center of the heart-shaped bed's gravitational pull, staring at the indent in the mattress where Colletta slept last night, curled into a small defensive ball on her side while I remained on mine, hyperaware of every breath she took.
My phone vibrates. A text from an unknown number.
"Saw you leaving. Good riddance. Colletta doesn't need some hired thug pretending to care about her. She needs to grow up and face reality like an adult. - D"
I deleted it without responding.
Then I draft a new message, sending it to Colletta's number.
"Contract fulfilled. Payment received. If you require future protection services, my contact information remains available."
Professional. Detached. Exactly how a properly terminated engagement should conclude.
