POV Noelle
“Who the hell are you talking to, Owen?”
My voice echoes down the hallway like a gunshot. He freezes mid-step, phone still pressed to his ear. His whole body goes rigid—like a soldier caught in enemy fire.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns his back slightly, lowering his voice into the receiver. “I’ll call you later.”
Later. That word feels like a blade.
“Owen.”
He ends the call, slips the phone into his pocket, and turns around. Calm face. Controlled breathing. But his eyes—his eyes give him away.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” he says, tone soft but sharp around the edges.
“Don’t start with that,” I snap. “Who was it?”
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Business.”
“What kind of business makes you sound like you’re bargaining with the devil?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, calculating what to say next. “You’re overthinking it.”
“Am I?” I take a step forward. “Because your voice—your eyes—everything about you just screamed fear. I’ve only ever seen that once before.”
“When?”
“The night you killed Gregory West.”
His jaw locks. The silence that follows is worse than shouting.
I cross my arms, holding my robe tight around me. “Say his name, Owen. Go on.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he walks past me toward the kitchen, pretending to pour himself water. His movements are too precise, too careful. The way he does when he’s lying.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“I’m tired.”
“No, you’re scared.”
He slams the glass down hard enough to crack it. “I said I’m fine!”
The baby monitor hums in the corner of the counter, Luna’s faint breathing filling the room. The sound cuts through my anger like mercy—but only for a second.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” I walk closer, my voice trembling. “I heard you say his name.”
That stops him cold. He turns, eyes burning into mine. “You heard wrong.”
“Don’t you dare insult me with that.”
We stare at each other, the tension between us thicker than air. Finally, I whisper, “Silas Kane.”
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening.
“God, Owen, why?” My voice cracks. “After everything he’s done—after what happened at the christening—you’re talking to him again?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
“I can’t.”
That single word hits harder than any confession could. I step back like he’s struck me. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”
His voice drops lower. “If I tell you, I drag you into it. I won’t do that.”
“I’m already in it!” I shout, chest heaving. “He sent a sniper to kill our daughter! You think keeping secrets keeps us safe? It doesn’t—it makes me blind!”
He moves closer, his hands out like he wants to hold me but doesn’t dare. “You’re angry, and you have every right to be. But this isn’t your fight.”
“Everything that touches you touches me,” I whisper.
He looks at me like he wants to argue—but he can’t. Then he says, quieter, “Silas wants something. I’m making sure he doesn’t come for you again.”
“What does he want?”
Owen hesitates, and that’s my answer. He doesn’t know. Or worse—he does.
“Owen,” I beg, voice breaking. “Look at me. Whatever you’re planning—don’t do it alone.”
He forces a small, broken smile. “You married a monster, angel. Sometimes monsters have to speak to other monsters to keep the peace.”
I shake my head. “No. You married a woman who doesn’t scare easily. If Silas wants a war, I’m not hiding.”
“You have a baby to protect.”
“And you have both of us to lose.”
The air between us splinters.
He finally says, “Go back to bed, Noelle. Please.”
I want to scream, to throw something, to shake him until the truth spills out—but I see it. The same fear he carried the night he saved me. The same cold determination in his eyes that means he’s already made a deal he can’t unmake.
I walk toward him slowly, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart is beating too fast. “Promise me you’re not giving him what he wants.”
He hesitates. “I promise I’m handling it.”
“Not what I asked.”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod like I believe him. But I don’t. When I finally walk away, his reflection in the window stays behind—haunted, restless, unrecognizable.
***
The next morning, the house feels colder.
Owen’s out early again, saying something about “checking the perimeter.” Luna’s asleep. Maria’s cooking breakfast in silence. I sip my coffee, scrolling through my phone. My messages to Rhea sit unread from last night. I type again:
Meet me at noon. Alone.
By the time I reach the café, she’s already there—black clothes, hair pulled tight, eyes scanning the street before she speaks.
“This about last night?” she asks.
“You knew,” I accuse softly.
She doesn’t deny it. “I knew he’d been in contact. Didn’t know how deep.”
My throat tightens. “You’re supposed to be his partner, Rhea. You’re supposed to protect him. Not let him bury himself.”
She leans forward. “And you’re supposed to protect the baby. So maybe we both messed up.”
I glare, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Listen,” she continues. “He’s trying to buy you time. Silas is testing him—probing the edges. If Owen doesn’t play, the man will come straight for you again.”
“Then we hit first,” I say.
Rhea’s brow lifts. “You planning to start a war in your living room?”
“I’m planning to end one before it reaches my daughter’s crib.”
For a second, something like respect flickers across her face. “You really love him, huh?”
“Enough to save him from himself.”
She exhales, looking away. “What do you need from me?”
“Information. Locations. Whoever Silas still has on payroll.”
“You’re asking me to betray my employer.”
“I’m asking you to help me keep him alive.”
That earns me a long, hard stare. Then she nods. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, he’ll never forgive either of us.”
I manage a faint smile. “He’ll forgive me when he’s still breathing.”
That night, I wait for him. When he comes home, there’s blood on his sleeve. He says it’s not his. I don’t ask whose.
He kisses my forehead, murmuring, “You worry too much.”
And I smile like I believe him, because that’s what love is sometimes—a mask you wear to keep the other person standing.
When he falls asleep beside me, I stare at the ceiling. I hear the faint buzz of his phone on the nightstand. I don’t touch it. Not yet.
Instead, I whisper into the dark, “You saved me once, Owen. Now it’s my turn.”
My fingers trace the silver ring on his hand—the one I gave him at the funeral—and I swear I can feel it burning.
Because this is where the first crack forms. Not from betrayal or hate. But from love desperate enough to disobey.