I stare at the message for five seconds before deleting it unsent.
Because it is a lie.
What I mean is:You are not pathetic. You are brave and chaotic and you taste like strawberries and fear, and watching you fall apart in that vineyard while I could do nothing violated every instinct I possess.
What I mean is:Come back to the room. Let me hold you the way I did against the door. Let me prove that this stopped being fake for me the moment you wrapped your legs around my waist and looked at me like I was something more than a weapon.
What I want to say is:I love you, and I do not know what to do with that information because it was not in the contract terms.
But I am a professional.
And professionals do not send such messages to former clients.
I shoulder my duffel, take one last look at the heart-shaped bed that offered poor tactical visibility but excellent proximity to the asset, and walk out of the Lover's Loft for the final time.
The elevator ride down feels longer than it should. The doors open onto the lobby and I see Monica, the bride, standing near the concierge desk, gesturing emphatically while the concierge nods with practiced sympathy.
She spots me before I can redirect to the stairs.
"Kruk!" She hurries over, her expression frantic, worry lines creasing her forehead. "Have you seen Colletta? She's not answering her phone and someone said they saw her crying near the vineyard but when I went to look she was gone and?—"
"We had a fight. She requested I leave the premises."
Monica's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession: confusion, concern, dawning horror. "What? No. Why would she... what happened?"
Behind her, through the windows overlooking the gardens, I can see Derek holding court with a group of groomsmen, his phone out, probably sharing the footage he captured.
"Your Best Man happened," I say, nodding toward the window. "He threatened us, I guess he really needs an ego boost."
"That fucking asshole." Monica's voice drops to a vicious hiss that reminds me sharply of her sister's rare moments of fury. "He's been obsessed with humiliating her ever since she broke up with him. I should never have let him guilt me into making him Best Man."
This is new tactical information.
"Colletta ended the relationship," I clarify, recalibrating my threat assessment of Derek from "petty ex-boyfriend" to "vindictive rejected suitor."
"Obviously. He was cheating on her with his dental hygienist." Monica's hands clench into fists at her sides, her wedding manicure glinting in the lobby lights. "She found out, dumped him, and he's spent two years telling everyone who'll listen that she was 'too uptight' and 'couldn't handle his success.' When I told her he was going to be at the wedding party, she promised me she was fine, that she'd bring her new boyfriend and everything would be okay."
The pieces fit with tactical clarity.
Colletta lied to her sister about having a boyfriend. Not out of pathetic desperation, but out of protective love, not wanting Monica to worry or feel guilty about including Derek in the wedding.
She hired me not because she needed intimidation, but because she needed armor.
And I failed to provide it when it mattered most.
"Where is she now?" I ask, already calculating search patterns, probable locations, the most efficient method of locating someone who does not wish to be found.
"I don't know." Monica's voice cracks, genuine fear threading through the anger. "She does this thing when she's upset where she just... disappears. Finds somewhere small and quiet to hide until she can put herself back together. But it's getting dark and she's been drinking and what if?—"
"I will find her," I interrupt, the words a vow, a mission parameter I assign myself. "And I will ensure her safety."
"But I thought you said you guys fought?"
"Yes." I adjust the duffel on my shoulder, already running scenarios, mapping the vineyard's layout in my mind,identifying potential hiding spots that would appeal to someone seeking solitude and darkness. "But I can’t leave her here, alone."
Monica studies me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression, understanding blooming across her features. "You love her."
It is not a question.
