Cillian took my phone out of my hand the way you'd take scissors from a toddler.
"Hey," I started.
He pocketed it. "You'll get it back later."
"That's my phone. My property. There are laws."
"There's also someone watching you." His hand found the small of my back, firm and directional, steering me away from the café. "You're coming with me."
"I've a shift. And a class. And a life that doesn't revolve around your schedule."
"Your friends now believe you have a husband." He glanced down at me, that infuriating almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Act like it."
The café door swung open behind us. Elena stuck her head out, eyes wide, grinning despite herself. "Go," she called, waving a dish towel at me like she was shooing a bird. "Your shift's covered. Go spend time with your husband. God knows you've been hiding him long enough."
Lana appeared behind her, phone already out, probably documenting this for posterity. "Bring him back for dinner! I've questions! Like, so many questions!"
I turned back to them with a smile that was ninety percent panic. "Love you both. Hate you both. Bye."
The black car was idling half a block down. A driver stood by the rear door, built like a refrigerator in a suit, face completely neutral. He opened the door without a word.
I stopped at the curb. "I'm not getting in a strange car."
"You jumped out of a window in a wedding dress three months ago." His hand pressed lightly at the small of my back. "A car with leather seats shouldn't be the thing that scares you."
I sighed and got in the car.
The interior was everything I expected and resented. Dark leather, tinted windows, and it smelled like expensive nothing. The driver slid in up front, separated by a partition that hummed shut before I could blink.
Cillian settled beside me, close enough that his knee pressed against mine. He didn't move it. I didn't move mine, because shifting away would mean admitting I'd noticed.
I stared straight ahead. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere that isn't being watched." He held my gaze for a second. "You'll know when we get there."
The car pulled into traffic. Trees slid past the tinted glass, then storefronts, then the edge of campus. My campus. My carefully constructed little world, shrinking in the rearview mirror.
He was on his phone within seconds, speaking in a language I didn't understand. Russian, maybe. Then something shifted mid-sentence, the consonants softening, vowels rounding out. Irish accent? He switched between them like changing gears, and I sat there understanding nothing, which I suspected was the point.
When he hung up, the silence resettled between us. Heavier now.
"So," he said, turning to me with the energy of a man settling into an interview he was going to enjoy. "We've been married six months, apparently. Where did we honeymoon?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Your friends will ask. Lana seems thorough." He stretched one arm along the back of the seat, his fingers close enough to my shoulder that I could feel the warmth without the touch. "Where did I take my wife for our honeymoon?"
This was a trap. Every question was going to be a trap.
"Italy," I said, picking the first country that felt safe.
"Where in Italy?"
"The Amalfi Coast. Very romantic. You were obsessed with the limoncello."
"I don't drink limoncello."
"You did on our honeymoon. You were a different man. Relaxed and fun. You even wore a Hawaiian shirt."
Something moved behind his eyes. "I've never worn a Hawaiian shirt."
"Tragic. It really brought out your eyes."
He watched me for a beat, and I could see him deciding whether to be annoyed or entertained. Entertainment won, barely. "And what do I do for work? In this story you're building."
I'd thought about this one. "Private security consultant."
"Vague."
"That's the beauty of it. Nobody asks follow-up questions about consulting."
"Elena will."
He was right. Elena absolutely would. "Fine. You run a family business. Real estate development, with some European offices."
"Real estate," he repeated, like I'd suggested he sold balloon animals for a living.
"It's boring enough that nobody will dig. And it explains the suits and the… you know what I mean. The whole..." I gestured at him. All of him. The jaw, the posture, the way he occupied space like he'd bought it in advance. "That."
"You're describing your husband," he said. "You should sound fonder."
"I'm crazy about you. Can't you tell?"
"Try harder."
"You're the light of my life, my rock, my anchor, my reason for conquering my fear of flying." I pressed my hand to my chest. "Every morning, I wake up and think, wow, I really married the most intense man on the eastern seaboard, and he chose me."
The car turned a corner. My body slid on the leather seat, and my hand shot out on instinct, grabbing the nearest solid thing.
Which was his thigh.
We both looked down at my hand. My fingers were splayed across his leg, gripping the muscle through the fabric of his trousers. It was, objectively, a very firm thigh. That was not the point.
I yanked my hand back. "Um, physics," I said. "That was completely involuntary."
"Of course."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're filing that away for later."
He shifted in his seat, turning toward me just enough that the space between us felt halved. "I'm your husband, Ava. What are you getting so shy about?" His voice dropped, warm and teasing in a way that made my neck flush. "Surely we've done more intimate things than that."
My face went hot.
"We haven't done anything," I said firmly.
"But they think we have." He tilted his head, studying me with open amusement. "Six months married. What do you call me in the bedroom? You seem to have quite the collection of nicknames. Babe. Honey. Darling." He leaned in a fraction. "Which one is it when the lights go off?"
"I call you a nightmare," I managed, but my voice came out breathier than I wanted and we both heard it.
"That's a new one. I'll add it to the list."
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and the warmth in his expression quickly faded.
He answered in Russian. Listened for a long moment, said something short and clipped, then hung up.
"What?" I asked.
"The number that texted you was routed through four countries. Whoever they are, they're not amateur."
"That's comforting. I was hoping for a casual stalker."
He didn't smile. "They referenced the café. That means they were close enough to see through the window, and they've been watching long enough to know your routine."
The leather seat suddenly felt colder. I pulled my sleeves over my hands.
"How long?" I asked quietly. "How long do you think they've been watching?"
He looked at me, and something in his expression shifted again. "Longer than me."
The words landed strangely. I'd assumed he was the first. The only one who'd found Evie Ross. The idea that someone else had been circling, maybe before he ever walked into that café, rearranged something in my chest.
"Is that why you came?" I asked. "Not just the contract. Not just because I ran."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I came because you're my wife," he said.
The word wife sat differently this time. Not possessive or teasing. Just certain. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a memory surfaced unbidden: a living room full of suits, his green eyes finding mine for the first time, and his voice saying you would be the first and the last.
First and last.
I shook it off. He was playing along. That was all. I'd started the game and he was better at it than me, which was annoying but not surprising.
Then, quieter, almost reluctantly, he added, "And because someone else seems to think they have a claim."
Before I could respond, he leaned forward and tapped the partition. It slid down an inch. He spoke to the driver, something low and quick that I couldn't make out, and the car changed direction.
"Where are we going?" I asked again.
He settled back beside me, his knee pressing against mine, and didn't answer.
My phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and handed it to me without a word.
It wasn't the unknown number.
Lana:Evie. Your husband is all over the Ridgemont gossip page. Someone took a photo of you two on the sidewalk. It has 200 shares. CALL ME.
I stared at the screen. Two hundred shares. My face. His face. Evie Ross and her mystery husband, blasted across every group chat in a college town where I'd spent three months making sure nobody looked at me twice.
Every camera, every curious student, every bored admin worker who might think huh, that girl doesn't look like her enrolment photo was now one click away from the biggest mistake of my morning.
I had grabbed his hand to protect my cover.
And it had just blown it wide open.