The kiss had tasted like a promise.
The fallout tasted like silence.
Audrey stood in the private conference room on the twenty-second floor, caught between her reflection in the glass and the ghosts behind it. Her trench coat was gone. Her sidearm holstered discreetly beneath a charcoal blazer. The folder on the polished table lay untouched, waiting—like her—to be opened.
Sebastian hadn't followed her in.
Not immediately.
She was glad for that. He didn't walk—he stalked. And that kiss in his office...
It hadn't been a slip. It had been ignition.
And now everything burned.
Her blood still thrummed, adrenaline kissing the edge of danger. His mouth had ruined her balance. And he'd known it. The bastard always knew.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Inhale. Exhale. Anchor.
This wasn't about him. Not the hunger clawing its way back. Not the touch that had cracked her armor.
This was about the contract. The shadows. The hunter in the dark.
Footsteps. Controlled. Measured.
He entered like gravity.
Sebastian. No tie. Deep slate-gray shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone just enough to tease the pulse at his throat. Danger draped in silk. Command without apology.
"I canceled the board meeting," he said casually.
Audrey didn't turn. "You'll need to recheck your executive security. The breach came from the inside."
"I've run background checks twice this quarter."
"Do it again. External net only. I'll send the contact."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "You giving orders now?"
"You're compromised," she said coolly. "And I don't take direction from a man with a bounty on his head."
Silence stretched between them like wire.
Then, soft—sharp: "Is that why you kissed me? Tactical leverage?"
She turned. Slowly. Razor-toned. "You kissed me back."
He smiled. Not kind. Not warm. Calculated. "You still taste like danger."
"And you," she said, "still taste like mistakes."
That silenced him.
She broke eye contact first, flipping the folder open. A photo slid across the table—intentional, clean.
"This is the point of contact. Alias: Lucien Noir. Real name unknown. Last sighted two weeks ago at a weapons auction in Vienna. Two days later, a leak exposed three names tied to your satellite defense contracts."
Sebastian's jaw twitched. "We buried that leak."
"Publicly, yes. But someone caught it—just long enough to apply pressure without exposure."
He leaned in, eyes narrowing as he examined the image. A man mid-toast, tuxedo immaculate, eyes like polished venom beneath the chandelier's golden spill. A predator dressed for the opera.
"Never seen him before."
"You wouldn't have. He trades in erasure. Recruits from ex-military black cells, burned agents, rogue assets. Men and women like me."
He met her eyes. "Except you're not for sale."
"No," she said softly. "But I remember the offer."
The air tightened—immediate, unspoken.
It was there again. The past. The fire. The lie neither of them had touched since it nearly killed them both.
Sebastian cleared his throat first. "What do you need from me?"
"Access," she said. "Total. I want eyes on your private security network, your shell companies, and your off-ledger intel drops."
He didn't blink. "You're asking for the crown of a billion-dollar empire."
"I'm asking for the keys before the lock snaps shut."
He watched her. That assessing look—hunter to equal. "And what's your price?"
"I keep you breathing."
"And when that's done?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
He straightened. "Fine. You get full access. On one condition."
Her brow arched. "You're bargaining?"
"I always bargain," he said. "You want into my world? Then operate inside it. Here. On-site."
Her eyes narrowed. "In your building?"
"I want proximity. I want to hear what you hear. See what you see. Feel the shift before it bleeds."
She stared at him. "That's not intel. That's control."
"I'm not the one being hunted."
Damn him. He was right.
She exhaled. "Fine. But I call the shots."
"Deal." He extended his hand.
She hesitated. Then took it.
The handshake was firm. Final.
But her fingers lingered just long enough to tell a different story.
So did his.
"You really came back just for the mission?" he asked, voice lower now, intimate.
She pulled her hand free. "I came to finish what I started."
His eyes darkened. "Unusual, since what we started never really ended."
Before she could answer, a soft knock echoed against the glass.
A woman entered. Smooth as a blade.
Espresso-toned skin, high cheekbones, lean and lethal in a navy suit tailored like armor. A braided column of jet-black hair trailed down her back, neat as her posture.
"Apologies," she said crisply. "We've confirmed a ping. Encrypted. Old tracking satellite. The signal originated from Utah."
Audrey's spine snapped straight. "Utah?"
The woman nodded. "One of our off-grid compounds. Only twelve people have access clearance."
Sebastian shot Audrey a glance. "Your training site. Think it's your old unit?"
"No," Audrey said, sharp and certain. "If it were them, they wouldn't use a satellite that obsolete. That's bait."
Sebastian turned. "Viv, cross-reference clearance holders. Any travel anomalies in the last thirty days."
Vivienne nodded. "Already on it."
She started to turn, then paused.
"You're Rousseau," she said to Audrey.
"I am."
"I've heard of you."
Audrey's mouth curved slightly. "Good things, I hope."
Vivienne's expression didn't change. "Depends who's talking."
Then she left.
Audrey raised an eyebrow. "She doesn't like me."
"She doesn't like anyone," Sebastian replied. "That's why she runs intel."
"And she's what? Your ex?"
He smirked. "Jealous?"
"No," she said coolly. "But I like to know who's watching your six when I'm not in the room."
He stepped closer again. That heat again—low, constant. "These days, it's only you."
And there it was.
The current. That crackling flicker of everything unsaid.
Before she could reply, her phone buzzed. Secure line. Only one caller used that encryption.
She answered. "Rousseau."
Her handler's voice came through. Flat. Crisp. "Your asset's active. So is the threat. We intercepted comms—Marseille."
She stilled. "Where in Marseille?"
"Old port. Warehouse district."
The ache hit her ribs like a pressure wave. She knew those streets like muscle memory. Her mother used to sell fabrics there, under sun-bleached tents.
Too close.
Too deliberate.
"Understood," she said. "I'll handle it."
She hung up and turned back to Sebastian.
He wasn't CEO-calm anymore. He was watching her like a man seeing fractures spider through concrete.
"Problem?"
"Always."
"You're going to Marseille."
"I have to," she said. "It's where the game started. And maybe where it ends."
"I'm coming with you."
"No," she said instantly. "It's too exposed. Too personal."
He stepped forward. "You said they're after me. You think I'm letting you walk into that alone?"
"I've survived worse."
"And I've lost enough."
The silence cracked wide—raw and impossible to unfeel.
She looked away first, grabbing the file. "We leave at dawn."
But as she passed him, he caught her wrist—gentle, firm.
His voice dropped. "Is this about Marseille? Or is it really about you?"
Her gaze locked with his.
And for the first time in two years, she told him the truth.
"...Both."