Maya’s POV
I've survived three months of careful choreography, and I'm starting to think I deserve an award for it. Or maybe just a straitjacket.
Arrive at seven-fifteen when Archie leaves at seven. Depart at five-forty-five when he returns at six.
Rearrange my entire schedule with surgical precision to ensure we're never in the same room, never crossing paths in hallways, never accidentally reaching for the same coffee cup in the kitchen.
It's exhausting, yet necessary. It's the only way I can breathe without feeling like I'm betraying everything Lora died for.
I tell myself the kiss was an error in judgment. A momentary lapse in the mission I've spent six years planning, a weakness I've corrected.
I tell myself a lot of lies these days.
Walking through the house today, I catalog the new tension that's settled over the family like fog you can't see but can definitely feel.
It's in the way doors close too softly. In the gaps between sentences that stretch too long. In the smiles that don't quite reach anyone's eyes.
Daphne's pregnancy is visible now—twenty weeks, the doctor's appointment calendar on the kitchen counter tells me, though I'd already calculated it from the dates I've been tracking.
There's a small but unmistakable curve beneath her clothes, subtle enough that strangers might not notice, obvious enough that I can't look away.
The twins don't understand why their mother moves slower now, why she sits down more often, why Xander hovers beside her like a shadow afraid of separation.
They don't understand why every doctor's appointment feels like the house is holding its breath, waiting for news that never sounds like good news.
Margaret tries to maintain normalcy, cooking elaborate meals that fill the house with smells of roasted chicken and fresh bread.
No one eats them. The food sits on the table, pushed around plates, a performance of dinner without the substance.
Robert's jaw stays perpetually tight, a Marine watching a threat he can't neutralize. I've seen that look before—on men who know the enemy is there but can't identify the target.
I observe it all with the detachment I've cultivated. This is data, ammunition for later, when my mission requires it. When the moment comes to strike, to make them understand what loss feels like, these details will matter.
The cracks in their foundation. The pressure points where grief has already started its work.
I don't let myself feel the crack in my own chest when Nina asks if the baby will be okay and Daphne's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
I don't let myself notice how Lisa counts the days between appointments, her small voice reciting numbers like a prayer.
I definitely don't let myself think about how Xander looks at his wife when he thinks no one's watching—like he's memorizing her face in case he needs the memory later.
This is work, mission. Feelings are just noise I've learned to filter out.
I'm in the study reviewing the twins' activity schedule—gymnastics on Tuesday, art class on Thursday, the birthday party next weekend that Nina won't stop talking about—when I hear the door close behind me.
I know before I turn around. My body knows before my brain catches up, every nerve ending suddenly awake and alert and screaming warnings I should have heeded months ago.
Archie leans against the door, one hand still on the handle, blocking my exit without making it obvious that's what he's doing.
Three months haven't dulled the impact of him—the sharp lines of his face, the way his eyes find mine like a heat-seeking missile locked on target.
He's wearing the charcoal suit he saves for difficult meetings, the one that makes him look dangerous and competent in equal measure.
"We need to talk." His voice carries weight, finality, the tone of a man who's done waiting.
I keep my response flat, professional, my eyes dropping back to the schedule in my hands like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever read.
"I'm reviewing next week's activities. If this is about the twins' transportation, I've already coordinated with—"
"Maya." Just my name—that's all it takes to shut me up. "Stop."
I stop. Pen frozen over paper, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
"Three months." He pushes off the door, takes one step closer. Not crowding, just closing distance. "You've been avoiding me. Three months of this choreography where you're gone before I arrive and never around when I'm here. You think I haven't noticed?"
"I'm not avoiding you."
"Don't insult my intelligence with that corporate bullshit." His voice sharpens, frustration bleeding through. "I know exactly what you're doing, Maya."
I force myself to hold his gaze. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." He takes another step, and now I can see it—the exhaustion beneath the control, the cracks in whatever armor he's been wearing. "You're running. From me, from what happened between us. And it's not going to work."
"Archie."
"Three months of trying to convince myself you were right," he cuts me off, and there's something raw in his voice now, something that sounds like it's been building pressure behind a dam that's finally breaking. "That it was just a mistake, that I could forget it and move on."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so uncharacteristically uncontrolled that I almost step backward.
"But I can't." The confession comes out rough, defeated. "I can't stop thinking about you."
The confession lands between us, raw and unguarded, and something hot and desperate twists in my chest.
I kill it, strangle it before it can take root. Before it can grow into something that will destroy everything Lora died for.
"Archie…" I try to make my voice firm, professional, but his name comes out wrong. Comes out like I care. My hands are shaking and I press them flat against the desk to hide it. "That kiss was a mistake."
"Was it?" He takes another step. We're not close, but we're closer, and I can feel the space between us like it has weight. "Or are you just scared of what happens if you admit it wasn't?"
"It was unprofessional, a lapse in judgment." Each word costs me pieces of myself I didn't know I had left to lose. "Something that won't be repeated."
"Are you ready to stop hiding?" His voice carries an invitation I can't accept, shouldn't even consider. "Because I am. I'm done pretending that kiss didn't happen, that I don't want—"
"Don't." I force myself to meet his eyes, force ice into my voice even as my heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
"Don't finish that sentence. The kiss was a mistake. We work together. We're colleagues. That's all."
I move toward the door. He's blocking it, but I walk anyway, forcing him to either move or make this into something it can't be. For one terrible moment, he doesn't budge.
We're close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean that I've memorized without meaning to. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if either of us moved six inches, we'd be touching.
Then he steps aside.
I walk past him, spine straight, face blank, every muscle locked in place to keep from breaking. My shoulder brushes his as I pass—accidental, inevitable, electric.
I don't let myself look back or acknowledge the way my hands shake as I climb the stairs to my room.
I don't let myself think about the look in Archie’s eyes when I told him it was a mistake—hurt and confusion and something that looked dangerously like understanding.
In my room, door locked, I sit on the edge of my bed and press my fists against my eyes until I see stars. Lora's voice whispers in my head, familiar and accusing. ‘What are you doing, Maya? What the hell are you doing?’
I don't have an answer anymore. Don't know if I'm protecting the mission or destroying myself, don't know if six years of planning is worth throwing away for a man who makes me forget why I came here in the first place.
I just know that three months wasn't long enough. Three years wouldn't be long enough. I could avoid Archie Hankel for the rest of my life, and he'd still be lodged in my chest like a bullet I can't extract.
Lora's voice is quieter now, sad instead of angry.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I ask her ghost. ‘How do I choose?’
But Lora doesn't answer. The dead never do.