Archie’s POV
I don't go to work. Philip's warning about my performance, the missed meetings—none of it matters anymore. Nothing matters when the woman you love turns out to be a lie.
I call in sick. The words taste like ash but come out steady enough. Then I turn off my phone and sit on my living room floor surrounded by Dylan's things—the boxes I unpacked weeks ago with Maya's help.
The bottle of whiskey is on the coffee table. I don't remember taking it out, but my hand knows where it is. The first drink burns. The second less so. By the fifth, I've stopped counting.
Everything Maya told me loops in my mind. Her sister's death.
The patron who recruited her. The six-year mission to destroy Xander and his family. The threatening notes she sent while Daphne was pregnant, terrified, carrying a baby who might die.
Maya did that. The woman who kissed me like I mattered, who held me when I fell apart about Dylan, who made me believe in futures again—she did that to people I've sworn to protect.
And I vouched for her. Told Xander just yesterday that I trusted her completely. Let her into their home, around their children, close enough to hurt them because I was too fucking blind to see what was right in front of me.
Every memory recontextualizes. The night she asked about Xander's business history—intelligence gathering, not curiosity.
The times I found her in restricted areas—infiltration, not coincidence. The way she touched me, held me, made love to me—was any of it real, or was I just convenient access?
The bottle empties faster than I intend. Whiskey becomes blur becomes floor tilting becomes Dylan's journal in my hands though I don't remember picking it up. I'm nineteen again, finding my brother dead, knowing I failed to save him.
Just like I should have seen Maya coming.
I gave her twenty-four hours. The thought surfaces through the alcohol haze like something sharp breaking skin. Twenty-four hours to disappear before I tell Xander everything, before I destroy her the way she destroyed me.
I tell myself it's because the Hales are dealing with Hope's crisis. Because Daphne and Xander are already drowning in fear for their daughter, and adding Maya's betrayal would break them. Because there's mercy in letting them have one more day of peace.
But that's not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that part of me still loves her. Still wants to protect her even after learning what she is. Still sees her face when she whispered "I'm sorry" and wants to believe some piece of what we had was real.
And I hate myself for it. Hate that I'm weak enough to give her a head start. Hate that my heart hasn't caught up with what my brain knows.
Hate that I'm sitting here drinking Dylan's memorial whiskey instead of driving straight to Xander's house and telling him everything right fucking now.
The room spins. I close my eyes and see Maya. Not the spy, not the liar—just Maya curled against my chest, head on my shoulder, trusting me to hold her while she slept.
That image shouldn't exist anymore. Shouldn't be possible to remember her that way now that I know the truth.
But I can't make it go away.
I don't know when I pass out. Just know that consciousness becomes darkness becomes nothing.
The pounding on my door pulls me back. Sunlight through the windows feels like knives in my skull. The pounding continues, insistent, accompanied by a voice I recognize even through the hangover fog.
"Archie! Open the door or I'm using my key!"
Xander. Shit.
I try to stand, make it halfway before my legs give out. The floor rushes up to meet me and I stay there, cheek pressed against hardwood, too exhausted to try again.
The door opens. Footsteps cross to where I'm sprawled. Then Xander's voice, much closer, edged with concern that makes shame burn through my chest.
"Jesus, Archie. When's the last time you ate?"
I don't answer. Can't form words past the cotton in my mouth.
Xander gets me up—one arm under my shoulders, hauling me to my feet. He half-drags me to the bathroom, turns on the shower, shoves me under the spray fully clothed.
The cold water hits like a slap. I gasp, choke, finally wake up enough to function. Xander hands me soap through the curtain.
"Get cleaned up. I'm making food."
By the time I emerge—showered, changed—Xander has toast and eggs and coffee waiting. He watches me eat, then refills my coffee and pulls out his phone.
"I'm calling Dr. Patterson. Crisis counselor who does house calls. You need to talk to someone professional."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Xander's voice is gentle but firm. "You're on the floor at eleven AM surrounded by empty bottles. That's not fine, Archie. That's rock bottom."
He makes the call. Dr. Patterson can be here in an hour.
Xander sits across from me, and the silence stretches. He's waiting. Not pushing, just present.
"Maya's not who we thought she was," I hear myself say.
Xander's expression doesn't change. "What do you mean?"
So I tell him. Everything—Maya's real identity, her sister Lora's death six years ago, the patron who recruited her. The six-year mission to infiltrate the Hale family. The threatening notes about the twins that she sent to create chaos.
Xander's face goes still. Not angry—worse. Empty. Like he's pulled everything dangerous inside where I can't see it.
"She confessed last night," I continue, and my voice cracks on the words. "I confronted her about an email I saw on her laptop. She told me everything. And I…" The shame of it rises like bile. "I gave her twenty-four hours to leave before I told you."
"Why?" No judgment in the question, just genuine curiosity.
"Because of Hope." The excuse sounds weak. "You and Daphne are dealing with her diagnosis. You couldn't handle this on top of everything else. I thought…" I stop, force myself to tell the whole truth. "I thought I was protecting the family. But that's not the only reason."
Xander waits.
"I love her, Xander," I admit, and the words feel like pulling glass from a wound. "Even knowing what she is, what she did. Part of me wanted to give her a chance to escape. And I hate myself for it."
The silence feels eternal. I watch Xander's face, waiting for anger, for condemnation, for our fifteen-year friendship to end because I chose a woman who threatened his children over my duty to protect his family.
But Xander just nods slowly. "I understand the head start."
"You… What?"
"Hope is the priority right now." His voice is calm, measured, but I hear steel underneath. "Not revenge. Not Maya. My daughter's life hangs in the balance, and that matters more than anything else. We'll deal with Maya later. When we have the capacity. When Hope is stable."
He meets my eyes across the table. "You made the call you thought was right. I'm not going to condemn you for it."
The relief nearly breaks me. I expect anger, betrayal, the end of our friendship. Instead, Xander offers understanding I don't deserve.
"Thank you," I manage.
"Don't thank me yet." Xander's expression hardens slightly. "When Hope is stable, when we have room to breathe—then we deal with Maya properly. But not today. Today we focus on what matters."
The doorbell rings. Dr. Patterson, arriving exactly on time.
Xander stands, squeezes my shoulder once as he passes. "Talk to her, Archie. You're not doing anyone any good like this."
He lets the counselor in, exchanges quiet words I don't hear, then leaves me to face my demons with professional help.
I sit at my kitchen table and try to figure out how to explain that I'm in love with someone who doesn't exist, mourning a relationship that was never real, hating myself for choosing her over people who actually deserve my loyalty.
Dr. Patterson settles across from me with a kind smile and says, "Why don't you start at the beginning?"
I exhale. And then I start.