Scene: That Night.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Ana leaned her forehead against the wood and exhaled hard. The smile she'd worn like a costume all day dissolved the moment she was alone.
She didn't bother turning on the lights. She dropped her purse on the floor and stood in the darkness, the only sound the gentle hum of a refrigerator and her own heartbeat, still rattling from the walk by the river.
Damian had been different. More human than she expected. More dangerous because of it.
She touched her lips, remembering how close he'd gotten. How gently he'd spoken.
What if this had all been real?
The thought stabbed her before she could stop it.
A soft, slow clap echoed from the corner of the room.
Ana froze.
She turned and there he was, sitting calmly in the armchair like a panther in velvet. Victor, Dexter's most unnerving enforcer. He wore a charcoal suit, a single earpiece, and an expression that never quite became a smile.
"Took your time getting home," he said. "Boyfriend walk you to the door?"
Her mouth went dry.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, slowly reaching for her bag where the backup drive was still hidden inside a false lipstick tube.
Victor raised a finger lazily. "Relax. Not here for that."
He rose from the chair, graceful and sharp-edged like a blade being unsheathed.
"Dexter's impressed. You're moving faster than projected. The Lopez son likes you. Maybe a little too much."
"That's the job," Ana said, voice steady. "Get close. Get in. Get out."
Victor stepped closer until they were almost nose to nose.
"See, that's the part we're concerned about," he said softly. "You're not just getting in, Tyler. You're.., cozy."
"I'm keeping up the act."
Victor stared at her like he was trying to peel off her skin with his eyes.
"Are you? Because Dexter's betting billions on you not getting soft. You know what happens if you forget why you're here."
"I don't forget," she said coldly. "Ever."
Victor watched her for another beat, then reached into his coat pocket and handed her a black envelope.
"Coordinates. A new drop location. You'll get further instructions tomorrow. Your window's closing, Ana. Get the secondary passcodes from Damian. And don't fall in love with your target."
He turned and left as silently as he came, the door clicking shut behind him.
Ana stormed into her wardrobe, her breath ragged, heart pounding in her chest like a conga beat. Without hesitation, she began yanking jackets from the hangers, tossing handbags and clothes across the room in a frantic frenzy. Her fingers trembled as she tore through fabric, searching no, hoping this was just paranoia.
But then she froze.
Buried in the lining of one of her favorite jackets, a glint of metal caught her eye. She ripped it open, her stomach dropping as thin wires spilled out delicate, almost invisible, and horrifyingly real. Her hands trembled as she inspected the others more wires, hidden microphones, and tiny transmitters laced discreetly into the seams.
She stumbled backward, her breath catching.
They'd been listening. Watching. Every move she made, every word she spoke.
The realization hit her like a freight train.
She had been nothing but a pawn in a larger game trapped in a life that had never truly belonged to her.
And, that monster, Dexter, had been somewhere, listening all along.
Ana stood in the silence again.
Only this time, it wasn't quiet. It was loud with doubt, with panic, with something she wasn't ready to name.
She sank onto the couch, envelope in one hand, and whispered into the dark.
Stick to the game Ana.
"Don't fall in love,"
But even she wasn't sure if it was a promise.
Or a warning.
The room was wrapped in stillness.
Ana lay curled under the thin sheets of the rented apartment's bed, her limbs tangled, her breathing steady but not peaceful. The moonlight slanted through the window blinds, striping the room in faint silver bars. A faint breeze stirred the curtain. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then silence again.
Then,
BRRRRRRRT. BRRRRRRRT.
The shrill buzz of her phone cut through the quiet like a blade. She jolted upright, blinking in the dark, heart pounding.
Her hand fumbled across the nightstand, knocking over a hairbrush before grabbing the phone.
When she saw the name glowing on the screen, Damian Lopez, her breath hitched.
A smile slowly bloomed across her face. The kind that starts reluctant and ends up glowing.
She swiped to answer, voice still husky with sleep. "Hello?"
Meanwhile,
Damian had just stepped out of his marble tiled bathroom, steam trailing in his wake. He wore a long white robe, loosely tied at the waist, his hair still damp and slightly tousled. The penthouse was bathed in a low amber glow from a single floor lamp, casting soft shadows on the walls.
He crossed the living room barefoot, glass of water in one hand, his phone in the other.
The meeting had dragged until nearly midnight numbers, projections, security audits. But none of it stuck. Not since her.
He sat down on the edge of the long leather couch, phone in hand, and let out a slow sigh.
Then he did something he never did.
He smiled.
And called her.
When her voice came through the speaker soft, sleepy, and surprised, his smile deepened.
"Did I wake you?"
She chuckled lightly. "Only a little. But, if it's you, I don't mind."
He took a sip of water. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."
"I almost didn't," she teased. "I thought it was a scam call. Or worse someone trying to sell me crypto."
That made him laugh, a low, warm sound that melted into the quiet between them.
"I just got out of a meeting," he said. "My head's full of noise. But I couldn't stop thinking about you."
She lay back against her pillows, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear. "About me? What's there to think about?"
"A lot," he said simply. "The way you laughed when you yelled at the river. The way you hold onto those glasses like they're bulletproof. And your voice. It stayed in my head."
She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She was glad he couldn't see her blush.
"That's not fair," she said. "You're not allowed to say things like that to a girl half asleep. Her defenses are down."
"I was hoping for that," he said smoothly. "When your defenses are up, you're impossible to read."
She bit her lip, smiling in the dark. "So, this is you trying to read me?"
"This is me," he said, his voice softening, "trying to get to know the girl who made my day.., without even trying."
There was a pause. A breath between them. Heavy with something unspoken.
"You know," she whispered, "I'm not good at things like this."
"At what?" he asked gently.
"At being, wanted."
Damian sat up straighter. "Well, you'd better start getting used to it."
Another pause. This one even quieter.
"Are you in bed?" he asked.
"Mm_hmm," she murmured, curling tighter under the sheets.
"I wish I was beside you."
Her breath caught. The air in her room suddenly felt warmer.
She didn't know what to say. Every word in her head was too dangerous, too real, too close to breaking character.
But what came out was honest.
"I wish you were too."
On the other end of the line, Damian smiled into the silence.
"I can't help but wonder," he said, his voice low, eyes narrowing with a smirk. "What you'd look like without those oversized glasses, or those baggy skirts you keep hiding behind." He smirks, his gaze soft, deliberate. "Actually," he murmured, his tone darkening into a whisper, "I wonder what you'd look like without anything on at all."
And ana's mouth had popped open as she bites her pinky nervously.
"Sleep well, mystery girl," he said. And ana had struggled to get a hold of herself.
"You too, billionaire boy," she whispered back.
He ended the call, the screen fading to black.
She stared at her phone for a moment longer.
Then slowly, carefully, she placed it against her chest, shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how wrong it all was how right it felt.