Page 16

Isabel

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, turning the sky outside the safe house a dusky purple. I stand in front of the small bedroom mirror, smoothing down the clingy black dress I chose for tonight. My stomach feels like it’s hosting a thousand butterflies, all fluttering in different directions. The anticipation for this evening has been building in the pit of my gut all day, pulsing like a low-grade current of electricity. Everything we’ve practiced—our “married couple” backstory, the countless little details about each other—comes alive tonight.

Club Greed’s private party. The place where we’re supposed to finally meet Morris Rolfe, or at least get close enough to gather real intel. The very idea sends my heart into overdrive, though I’m not sure if it’s the mission that has me so anxious or the memory of how close Lincoln and I have become over the past week. When I think of the nights we’ve shared—of the intimate, heated moments I never saw coming—my cheeks burn.

For a long minute, I stare at my own reflection: teased hair pinned back, smoky eye makeup giving me a darker, more alluring look than usual, and the form-fitting dress that leaves little to the imagination. If we’re going to convince anyone we belong in a place like Club Greed, we have to look the part. With a shaky exhale, I remind myself that I’m not just going as Isabel Maddox—I’m going as Isabel Zane, Lincoln’s wife. A role I’ll have to play convincingly, from the way I cling to his arm to the way I greet him with a kiss if someone’s watching.

A knock on the doorframe startles me. I turn to see Lincoln lingering there, half in shadow, wearing a dark suit that clings to every line of his body in a way that has me pressing my thighs together. His hair is styled neat, but a bit of that natural wave still shows at his temples, a reminder that he’s not just some corporate stiff—he’s ex-military, a man who thrives on danger. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

“You ready?” he asks quietly, voice low and calm, though his eyes flick over me with a need that betrays his composure.

I swallow hard. “As I’ll ever be.” I force a nervous laugh. “You look… good.”

He steps into the room, his gaze lingering on the hem of my dress, then meeting my eyes. “You look incredible,” he says, the faintest crack in his voice. A flicker of a smile tugs at his lips before he glances away, clearing his throat. “Listen, before we head out, there’s something I realized we haven’t practiced.”

My stomach twists. “We’ve practiced everything, though. The details about each other’s families, our fictional wedding date, our favorite foods. We even practiced being comfortable with… well, with each other physically.” Heat swirls in my cheeks, recalling just how physical that got.

He shifts his weight, rolling back on his heels. “Yeah, we did. But there’s one pretty basic thing that’s expected of a married couple—kissing. People at the club might notice if we never do it, or if it looks awkward when we do.”

My face burns hotter. “We, uh… oh, right,” I murmur, realization sinking in that he’s absolutely right.

Lincoln’s shoulders tense, like he’s worried he’s overstepping. “I know this might be weird to just… bring up. But if we go in there, acting like newlyweds or at least a happily married couple, we can’t look like we’re fumbling around each other’s mouths. That’d raise suspicion.”

He’s not wrong. Of course he’s not. My heart pounds. “Okay,” I whisper, running my fingertips over the neckline of my dress to distract myself. “So we… practice, here. Now?”

His gaze darts to the hallway, as though double-checking that we’re alone. Even thought we obviously are. “Yeah, I think we should. Just… get it out of the way, so we’re both comfortable.”

I nod, my nerves fraying like a live wire. We’ve done more intimate things than a kiss, but somehow, this feels different—more vulnerable, more telling. A kiss is a statement, a public display of care or desire. And we’re about to leave and face an entire crowd of suspicious onlookers who might test our story if we so much as hesitate.

I take a breath to steady myself, stepping toward him so that there’s only a sliver of space between our bodies. He smells like cologne—something warm and smoky—and underneath that, the familiar scent of Lincoln, fresh and undeniably masculine. My pulse thuds in my ears, and when I look up into his dark eyes, I see them flicker with the same tension that’s gripping me.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, his voice laced with concern. “If you’re uncomfortable?—”

I press a hand to his chest, my palm meeting the solid warmth of muscle beneath the suit jacket. “No,” I say, “I’m not uncomfortable. Just… nervous. This kiss has a lot riding on it.”

He lifts a hand, gently tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, the small gesture sending a shiver through me. “Right,” he murmurs. “Let’s just… go slow.”

I nod, throat too tight to form words. He drops his head toward mine, gradually closing the distance. I tilt my chin up, heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it. The moment his lips brush mine, every thought in my head scatters like sparks from a flame.

It’s soft at first—cautious, testing. His lips are warm, slightly parted, and I can taste the mint from his toothpaste. My eyes flutter shut as a wave of desire surges through my chest. I press closer, letting my free hand drift up to grip the lapel of his jacket. It’s an anchor, something to hold onto as I melt into the moment.

Lincoln groans low in his throat, and that single sound knocks my pulse into overdrive. He slides one arm around my waist, drawing me flush against him, and the delicate press of his mouth becomes something more insistent. The second our bodies connect, sparks dance along my skin. With a trembling sigh, I open my mouth for him, feeling the slow sweep of his tongue.

My head swims, drowning in the heady mix of his taste, his touch. It’s not a desperate kiss—more like a slow bloom of longing, a pent-up tension finally unfurling. When he angles his head a bit more, deepening the kiss, I let out a muffled whimper, meeting his intensity. It’s a dance: he leads, I follow, then I lead, and he responds, each movement sending another wave of warmth through my veins.

Time seems to suspend. There’s only the low hum of the overhead light, the soft rustle of my dress as I shift against him, and the thunder of our heartbeats echoing each other. My hand skims up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. His breath catches against my lips, and he tightens his hold on my waist, pulling me so close I can feel every ripple of muscle beneath that suit.

He feels so good.

Eventually, the need for air forces us apart. I draw back first, panting, my lips tingling. For a moment, I don’t dare open my eyes, just trying to catch my breath and calm the wild swirl of emotions. When I do peek up at him, his gaze is heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. If the mission was to appear as a couple deeply in love, well… we’ve just nailed the audition.

“Wow,” I breathe, the single syllable trembling.

“Yeah,” he echoes, voice thick with astonishment. He clears his throat, stepping back an inch—not enough to tear away entirely, but enough to let the air move between us again. “That was… uh, good practice.”

A half-laugh escapes me, despite the lingering haze of desire. “Good practice,” I echo. “So, if we have to kiss at the club?—”

“I think we’ll manage.” His lips curve in a wry smile, though his eyes still blaze with that same intensity that I feel thrumming in my chest. “We should probably go, though. Don’t want to be late.”

I swallow, nodding, though my mind is reeling with the sense that I might’ve just awakened something we can’t easily put back to sleep. “Right. Let’s do it.”

He reaches for my hand as we leave the room, guiding me through the hallway and into the safe house’s living room. Our bags are packed with everything we might need for the night—phone, a discreet earpiece for emergency communication, a small cosmetic kit with an ID if needed, and, of course, that adult toy we decided to bring in case we’re subjected to a search. My gut clenches at the thought of that, but I square my shoulders. This is what we came here to do.

I slip on my heels, and Lincoln helps me with my coat. The night outside is dark, the last streaks of purple sky now replaced by inky black. A scattering of stars peeks through the pine trees, but there’s no moon tonight, leaving the safe house yard in shadow.

We step out onto the porch, the chill of the air hitting me immediately and doing little to cool the heat still coursing through my body. Lincoln locks the door behind us, then offers his arm in a gentlemanly gesture. I loop mine through his, and we walk to the SUV parked nearby. The quiet rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant call of a night bird feel oddly serene compared to the maelstrom of emotions inside me.

In the car, as we buckle our seatbelts, I sneak a glance at him, noticing the faint flush still coloring his neck. It brings a soft smile to my face, a reminder that I’m not the only one affected by that kiss. He catches me looking and gives a reassuring nod, like he’s silently saying, We’re in this together.

The engine roars to life, and we pull onto the dark highway leading away from the safe house. The glow of the headlights cuts through the night, illuminating a narrow path ahead. Neither of us speaks at first, the tension palpable. We’ve spent days preparing for this moment, but the reality is suddenly more daunting than all our practice sessions combined. The memory of that scorching kiss earlier also refuses to leave my mind, pulsing with an intoxicating mix of excitement and dread.

Eventually, Lincoln breaks the silence. “How are you holding up?”

My fingers curl against the smooth leather of the seat. “Nervous,” I admit. “Not just about the party. That kiss…” I trail off, not sure how to put my feelings into words.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles white in the reflection of the dash. “I know. Me too. But we’ll figure it out. One thing at a time, right?”

“Right,” I say softly, letting out a slow breath. “One thing at a time.”

The highway stretches on, and we drive in near-silence, the hum of the engine and the faint roar of wind around the car acting as our soundtrack. My eyes dart to the clock on the dashboard. We’re supposed to arrive by nine, and it’s a little after eight-thirty now. Perfect timing—enough to get in without seeming too eager or too late.

I remember the last time we were at Club Greed—the pounding music, the swirling lights, and the undercurrent of secrecy that laced every interaction. This party is rumored to be even more exclusive. My stomach flips. If someone decides we’re not who we say we are, we could lose our one chance at confronting Rolfe—or worse, put ourselves in real danger.

Still, I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s the aftertaste of that kiss. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel more alive than I have in years. I sneak another glance at Lincoln’s profile—strong jaw, set lips, gaze fixed on the road. He looks every bit the capable protector, and yet, beneath that stoic exterior, I’ve glimpsed a passion that rivals my own. The memory of his lips pressed to mine sends a shiver down my spine.

And honestly, I can’t wait to kiss him again. I hope everyone at the club asks us to prove we’re a real couple, so I can kiss this man all night long. That’s silly, right? I mean, that kiss was magnetic, but I shouldn’t want more. Lincoln’s a friend, a co-worker. Not boyfriend material. Right?

We take the final exit, the car’s headlights carving out a path through an industrial area. The sign for Club Greed emerges. Lincoln turns onto a side street that leads to a valet station, and already I can sense the shift in atmosphere. High-end cars are lined up, chauffeured by men in sharp suits and women wearing dresses that make mine look tame. My heart picks up pace again.

As we pull up, Lincoln cuts the engine and casts me a quick, determined look. “This is it.”

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Here goes nothing.”

He steps out of the SUV first, handing the keys to the valet, then circles around to open my door. The gesture is so gentlemanly it makes my stomach flutter. I take his hand, letting him help me out. My heels click on the pavement, and I smooth down my dress, the air tingling with the muted thrum of bass from inside the club.

He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close. It’s a move that feels shockingly natural now, like we’re slipping into the roles we’ve spent all week rehearsing. My heart stutters at how easily I nestle into his side, how my hand seems to find his lapel without hesitation.

We approach the velvet rope, where a poised hostess checks our names on an iPad in her hands. “Mr. Zane,” she says with a polite nod, glancing at me. “Mrs. Zane. Welcome back.”

My breath hitches at hearing that name aloud, but Lincoln responds smoothly. “Thank you. We’re looking forward to tonight.”

She smiles a bit too knowingly, parting the rope to let us pass. As we head inside, the pounding music grows louder, colors flash across the dance floor, and the familiar swirl of heat and neon washes over us. My hand tightens on Lincoln’s jacket, the memory of our steamy kiss dancing along the edges of my mind.

Whatever happens in the next few hours—whatever we discover about Rolfe, or what secrets he might be hiding—I know one thing for sure. That kiss was real in a way I never anticipated. And as we merge into the crowd, my thoughts remain locked on Lincoln, on the taste of his lips, and on the unspoken promise that maybe this is just the beginning.

We’re here for a mission, yes. But as I glance up into his eyes, catching the lingering trace of desire there, I realize that what we share is far from pretend. And that, above all else, might be the most dangerous truth of all.