Her words burn whatever is left of my composure, as does the soft click of the door behind her that tells me I’m alone.
I crumble.
I sit still, sobbing.
I should walk down the stairs, through the back hall, and go to Lucille’s Flowers, my shop, my world. I should flip the sign to OPEN. I should get to work. But I can’t, because I’m trembling violently.
I pick up my phone again, my hands shaking, and call him.
Just one more time. Just in case….
Same result.
That’s it. No words. He’s just gone. I’m ghosted.
That’s my goodbye and my punishment.
2
THE MOMENT I BREAK
DOMINIC
When I see her step into the briefing room, it’s as if someone hooks a wire behind my ribs and yanks. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I left her, lying that I was going to Paris when I was actually going to Virginia, to Foxstone Park, to catch Lowell leaving a package of U.S. intelligence for his handlers.
She’s wearing what she usually does: jeans and a flowy, feminine blouse. Since it’s spring and still cool, she’s wearing a light wool coat. It’s cashmere. She likes the texture against her skin. I wonder what she’ll do with the cashmere scarves and sweaters I gifted her.
She knows who I am.
We know Margaret Cahill visited her the day before. She was in Enya’s apartment for forty-five minutes. After that, Enya didn’t open Lucille’s.
After that, I watched her cry in her apartment.
The agency rented an apartment right across the street from her place so we could keep an eye on her. I was closing up yesterday, or rather, that was my excuse to spy on her.
The woman who sobbed for hours, her arms around herself, isn’t in the room behind the two-way mirror. This Enya is composed like she’s been invited for high tea.
I’ve seen hardened arms dealers sweat harder than this.
But this Enya isn’t real. I know my woman, and this is an act—a mask she’s put on to protect herself.
And I hate it. I hate that she’s here, afraid, answering questions because of me—because of what I did. Because of what I am.
“Dom, you sure you don’t want to go in there?” Kiera asks.
We know each other well. She’s been with me on several operations over the years. It’s reasonable that she’s asking me why I’m not interrogating Enya.
My cover is blown, so it doesn’t matter if Enya knows who I am. My next mission takes me out of the country—and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll adopt a new legend. Move on.
Except, for the first time since I started working as a covert operative, I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to break the illusion Enya has of a man who was in love with her.
Because it wasn’t all lies.
“I’m sure,” I murmur, not able to take my eyes off my girl.
My behavior and my internal dialog are the antithesis of who I am.
I’m Dominic Delacour, a man with no emotions. I will happily write off an innocent bystander as collateral damage to complete my mission.
