Chapter 12

AVERY – 

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here.

The deep indigo of night has bled into a cool, pre-dawn grey. The shapes in my bedroom are becoming distinct again. I should get up. My alarm will blare soon. But my body feels heavy, leaden, pinned to the mattress by the ghost of her weight.

It’s a pleasant numbness, a physical echo. The soft skin on the inside of my thighs feels hypersensitive, a faint, bruised tenderness that whispers of her mouth. My lips are slightly swollen, remembering the relentless, claiming pressure of her kiss.

And then she was just… gone.

No goodnight. No lingering look. The cold space in my bed was my own. The only evidence she’d ever touched me was the scent of sandalwood clinging to my skin and the profound, aching emptiness between my legs.

She gave me a version of ecstasy I didn’t know existed.

Then she left me alone in its wreckage.

The feeling is a paradox: my body feels sated and full, while something in my chest feels hollowed out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, I have to move.

My alarm is going to ring. I’ll have to face my boss, his passive-aggressive comments. Eli will take one look at me and know something seismic has happened.

But I just lie there, trapped between the cool sheets and the scorching memory of her.

God, I am utterly ruined.

***

The office is a study in sterile beige and fluorescent lighting. The air smells of stale coffee and toner powder. It’s a different planet, one where the most dramatic event is a jammed printer.

And I am an alien here.

I sit at my desk, my posture rigid. My monitor glows with a half-finished email, the cursor blinking a steady, mocking rhythm. My fingers rest on the keyboard, but they’re useless. They’re too busy remembering the feel of her touch.

I shift in my chair, the movement causing a faint, echoing throb that makes me catch my breath. My body is a traitor, a live wire of remembered sensation. 

A coworker walks by. “Morning, Avery!” All I give is a tight, wordless nod, keeping my eyes down. If I look up, I’m certain they’ll see the film of last night over my eyes, the brand she left on me.

I try to force my brain to engage. Reports. Invoices. Scheduling. The words blur together. All I can see is the dark intensity in her eyes as she looked up from between my legs. All I can hear is her voice, telling me not to move, not to touch. The sheer, desperate want I felt to disobey, just to feel the consequence of her hands.

I press my thighs together under the desk, a subtle, secret pressure. It doesn’t quell the ache; it just reminds me of its source.

And then, as if summoned by my vulnerability, he appears.

My boss. His suit is a little too tight, his smile a little too slick. He leans a hip against my desk, invading my space without permission.

“Well, well. You look like you’ve had a weekend,” he says, his tone implying something cheap. He winks.

I force the corners of my mouth up. “Just tired.”

“Should’ve called in sick. I’m sure I could’ve managed without you for a day.” His gaze dips to my chest for a prolonged, uncomfortable moment.

“I’m sure you could’ve,” I mutter, the words a venomous whisper into my keyboard.

He doesn’t reply. He just smirks, letting the silence stretch until it’s suffocating. Finally, he turns and walks away, but not before his gaze drags over me one last time, leaving a trail of invisible filth. I watch his back as he settles into his chair, the king of his pathetic, cubicle kingdom.

Asshole.

***

VICTORIA –

He looks kind. That’s the first thing most people notice, and it’s his most effective weapon.

Darius.

His white hair is impeccably styled, his cashmere sweater the colour of charcoal ash. The lines around his eyes suggest a lifetime of gentle smiles, and his voice is a low, calming rumble, the kind you’d trust to read a bedtime story. He looks like a retired professor, a benevolent grandfather.

But I know better.

I see the razor’s edge in his stillness. The predatory patience in his silence. When he leans back in his leather armchair and folds his hands, he isn’t relaxing; he’s a spider feeling for vibrations in his web. He’s reading the micro-expressions I’ve worked for years to erase.

I know this because he is the one who taught me.

He’s the man who took a furious, grieving girl and forged her into a weapon. He handed me my first gun, my first target file. He looked at me, his eyes devoid of pity, and said, “Some people don’t deserve a second chance, Victoria. They barely deserved their first.” He didn’t just teach me how to kill; he taught me the philosophy of it. The necessity.

He taught me everything.

Which is why the moment my focus wavers, he sees it. My gaze, which should be locked on him, drifts for a fraction of a second to the rain-streaked window, to the memory of a warm, tangled bed.

“Victoria.”

His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room’s silence like a scalpel.

I blink, pulling my mind back into the present, into the soundproofed study that smells of old books and expensive scotch. He’s looking at me over the rim of his reading glasses, his expression still politely neutral.

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

“No,” I admit, knowing that lying is pointless.

His eyebrow lifts a meticulous millimeter. “That’s a first.”

I don’t offer an explanation. My silence is its own confession.

He steeples his fingers, the pads resting against his lips. “Is it something I should worry about?”

“No,” I say again, the word sharper this time. A dismissal. “It’s not about the job.”

“Mm.” He leans back, the leather creaking softly. “Personal, then.”

A flare of irritation heats my skin. I hate that he can read me so easily, that he can distinguish between professional complication and… whatever this is.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say it like that.” His tone is conversational, but the observation is a precise strike.

I let the silence stretch, using it as a shield. If I speak, her name might tumble out. And I will not expose her to this room, to this man. I will not let his clinical gaze dissect what happened.

But the truth is, I’m distracted. We both know it. My mind, usually a vault of focus, is compromised.

I’ve never taken a contract when my head wasn’t a clear, cold slate. I’ve never missed a detail, never lingered after a hit, never allowed a man-or a woman-to occupy my thoughts beyond the time it took to drive away. They were variables, transactions, temporary distractions.

I press my fingertips hard against the polished mahogany of his desk. The solid, unyielding wood is a anchor. A reminder of my reality.

“I’m focused,” I state, my voice flat and final. “Give me the file.”

He watches me for another long, assessing moment, then reaches into a drawer. He slides a plain black envelope across the table. There is no name. Just a time, a location, a photograph, and a number.

I tuck it inside my coat without breaking the seal. The weight of it is familiar.

“Clean,” he says. “But urgent.”

“They’re always urgent,” I reply, the old mantra.

He offers a faint, knowing smile. “Not all of them are yours.”

I don’t ask what he means. I don’t want to know the implications, not yet.

Not while the ghost of her warmth is still a distraction I can feel in my bones.

***

Outside, the city is a blur of noise and motion. 

I walk, the black envelope a familiar weight inside my coat. I always open them immediately. The first step is memorization; delay is a vulnerability.
But my hand doesn’t reach for it.

I stop in the lee of a building, the stone cool through my jacket. Closing my eyes does nothing. The phantom heat of her skin, the sound of her breath – it is all there, a persistent hum beneath the city’s din.

This is a problem.

Finally, I slide the envelope out and break the seal. The face inside is a political consultant grown arrogant with influence. The details are clean, the schedule straightforward. Friday. Ample time.

I tuck the file away, the target’s face already committed to memory. The professional part of my mind is engaging, a well-oiled machine clicking into gear.

But it is running alongside another, entirely foreign script. The part that knows, with cold certainty, that preparing for this job won’t stop me from thinking about her. The part that knows if she reaches out, my well-honed instincts won’t be enough to make me say no.

The two realities are now coexisting, and I have no idea how to make them fit.

***

AVERY –

The office is dead quiet.

Five-thirty has come and gone, leaving behind the hollow silence of abandoned workstations and the low, electric hum of dormant computers.

The only light comes from the emergency exit signs, casting a sickly green glow. I am the last one, as usual, trying to force my brain to finish the tasks it has refused to all afternoon.

My mind is a reel of stolen moments. I’ve hit ‘save’ on the same spreadsheet three times, the click of the mouse is unnaturally loud in the silence. The words on the screen have long since dissolved into meaningless shapes.

It is late. I just want to be home, under a scalding shower, scrubbing the lingering feeling of the weight of her hand on my jaw. The scent of her skin. The devastating emptiness of the bed after she left.

Maybe I’ll blast music until my ears ring, anything to drown out the memory of her voice and the shame of today’s silence.

I finally shut down my computer. The fan whirs to a stop. I shove my notebook into my bag, the sound of the zipper is gratingly loud. I am two steps from the door, my hand reaching for the handle.

“Avery.”

The voice hooks into the base of my spine, cold and familiar.

I turn, my movements slow, deliberate.

My boss is leaning in his doorway, silhouetted by the warm, expensive light of his corner office. One hand is braced against the frame, the other tucked into his trouser pocket. His smile is a practiced thing, all easy charm and false warmth.

“Can I see you for a second?”

Every cell in my body screams no. I should say I am sick. That I have a train to catch. That my dog is on fire. Anything.

But I don’t. I just nod. Because that’s what I’ve been trained to do. Be polite. Be accommodating. Don’t make a scene.

I step into his office. The air is different in here – warmer, smelling of his cologne and old coffee.

He gestures vaguely behind me. “Close it.”

A cold trickle of unease runs down my back. Why? The floor is empty. But my hand moves anyway, pulling the heavy door shut with a soft, definitive click. I hate the sound. I hate myself for obeying.

I stand rigid, my bag still hanging from my shoulder like a shield. He perches on the edge of his massive desk, as if we are old friends catching up.

“You’ve been a little distracted lately,” he begins, his tone faux-concerned. “It’s starting to affect the quality of your work.”

Is it? Maybe today has been a write-off. But one day? One single, fucked-up day and I am now a liability?

I keep my face a blank mask. I don’t trust my voice.

He prattles on about deadlines and team cohesion, but the words are just noise. I am watching his hands, his mouth. Then, he stops talking.

The shift is palpable. The professional pretense evaporates.

His gaze drops. It is a slow, deliberate inventory. From my eyes, to my mouth, down the front of my blouse, lingering on my chest before dragging its way back up. It isn’t a glance; it is a violation.

I freeze. My breath locks in my chest. I know this look. I’ve felt it on crowded streets, in bars, from passing cars. It is a look that strips you of your personhood and sees only an object. A look that assumes access.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, slick with an intimacy that turns my stomach. The words are veiled, slimy compliments, suggestions that are anything but suggestive. They hang in the air between us, toxic and suffocating.

I don’t say a word. I should. I should curse, throw my bag at him, walk out.

But I don’t. I just stand there, trapped in the current of his audacity, my own silence screaming in my ears.

Eventually, he seems to tire of the game. He dismisses me with a wave, his grin widening. “You can go now.”

I flee. Out the door, down the hall, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the linoleum. The elevator takes an eternity. I can still feel his gaze on my back, can still smell his cologne in my nostrils.

I burst out onto the street, gulping in the cool night air, but it is tainted. There is a sour, metallic taste in my mouth – the taste of my own powerlessness.

And then, unbidden, the thought comes. The same one from before.

Not a vague fantasy. A specific, vivid image.

The cold, heavy weight of the brass letter opener on his desk. The precise, shocking sound it would make – a wet, tearing shhhck – as it slides into the soft, vulnerable hollow of his throat. The way his eyes widen, not with pain at first, but with pure, uncomprehending shock. The sheer, bloody finality of it.

I blink, shaking my head as if to dislodge the thought.

But the image doesn’t fade. It settles, quiet and sharp, in the back of my mind. Not as a horror, but as a solution. A dark, permanent answer to a question I am suddenly tired of being asked.

***

By the time I get home, I’m still holding my breath. I only realize it when my front door is shut and locked behind me, and a dull ache in my chest forces me to exhale. The walk from the train, the ride up in the elevator – none of it scrubbed away the feeling. That slick, oily residue his words left on my skin, the phantom weight of his gaze… it was all still there, clinging to me.

Nothing happened, technically. The rational part of my brain kept repeating it, a feeble mantra. He didn’t touch you. But the rest of me knew better. The violation was in the space he took, the air he polluted, the way he made my own skin feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Juno meets me at the door, her entire small body a engine of pure, vibrating relief. She weaves between my legs, nearly tripping me, bumping her head hard against my shin as if I’d returned from a years-long voyage, not a ten-hour workday.

“Okay, okay,” I mumble, my voice rough from disuse. “I missed you too, you drama queen.”

I drop my bag onto the couch with a heavy thud and head for the kitchen when she meows again, a sharp, demanding sound. Her food bowl is empty, of course. She sits beside it, whipping her tail like it’s my personal failure. I fill the bowl, the kibble clattering loudly in the quiet apartment. She dives in, not even waiting for me to finish pouring.

I open the fridge. A wave of cold, empty air hits me.

It’s a landscape of neglect. A lone, sad-looking egg in a carton. A jar of mustard with a crusty rim. A plastic container holding something unidentifiable and fuzzy. A single, desiccated lemon half.

I slam the door shut, the seal breaking with a soft whump.

“Takeout it is,” I announce to the silent apartment.

But first, a shower. I need a shower more than I need food.

I leave a trail of clothes from the door to the bathroom, peeling the day off my skin. I step into the shower and turn the knob hard. The first spray is icy, needling my skin, and I welcome the shock. I stand under the water until it scalds, letting it beat against my shoulders and back, trying to pummel the memory of his gaze out of my muscles.

I scrub. I lather my hair twice, wash my arms, my legs, the places his eyes have touched. It isn’t about being clean; it is about reclaiming my own surface area. I need to erase the phantom feeling of his appraisal and the chilling, specific clarity of my own violent response.

I shut the water off with a violent twist. Sudden silence, broken only by the drip-drip from the showerhead. I lean my forehead against the cool, wet tile, steam condensing on my skin. My body trembles.

This isn’t who I am.

The refrain is weak, an echo of my old self. I am the person who apologizes for existing in someone else’s way. The one who plans exit strategies before arriving at parties. The one who folds into herself to avoid any kind of conflict.

But that person feels distant, a faded photograph.

The woman standing here now, her heart hammering with a righteous, terrifying fury, is someone else entirely.

And the most unsettling part isn’t the fear.

It is the faint, undeniable thrill of recognition. A dark, solid part of me is looking at this new, furious version of myself…

…and doesn’t hate what it sees.