North’s POV

I woke before him. Again.

It was early — a gray, hesitant kind of morning. The light barely filtered through the drawn curtains, soft and cold across the floor. I could feel his arm still wrapped around my waist, lax in sleep. His breath, warm at the base of my neck. Familiar. Steady.

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because for a moment — for the smallest, most fragile sliver of time — I wanted to pretend. That this was real. That I wasn’t who I was. That he wasn’t who he was.

But it shattered as quickly as it came.

This was wrong.

Every fiber in my body said it. Screamed it.
This was wrong.

The warmth. The silence. The way I’d started to wait for his voice.
The way I leaned into his touch instead of bracing against it.

I couldn’t forget. I wouldn’t.

I slipped from his hold, careful not to wake him.

Moved like a ghost through the quiet bedroom.

Into the bathroom.
Shut the door.
Locked it.

And then I just stood there — hands braced on the sink, eyes locked with my own in the mirror.

I looked different.
Too still.
Too softened.

Like someone who’d forgotten the fire they were built from.

“Get it together,” I hissed to my reflection.

But the words barely held.

Because behind them — behind all the practiced fury and control — was something else.

Something raw.
Something terrifying.

I love him.

The words struck like a punch.

I gritted my teeth. Turned on the faucet. Splashed water on my face, again and again, like I could wash the thought off me.

I love him.

Even when I was lying. Even when it was all a mission. I never stopped.

And now?

Now it wasn’t a mission anymore.

And he wasn’t just a target.

He was the man who touched me gently. Who memorized my silence. Who held me like he already knew the shape of my ribs, my guilt, my grief.

And still—

This was wrong.

Because outside this mansion were people who were dying under his name.

Civilians.

Children.

Men and women who never got the choice to look away.

And my father—

My father.

I could still hear his voice like it was yesterday.
“Duty, North. Not desire. When the world turns to ash, it’s the ones who chose honor who live with their heads high.”

I stared at myself in the mirror and something in me snapped.

I shed a tear. Angry. Silent. Hot as acid.

Then another.

And I hated myself for it.

I couldn't stay. I couldn't sleep in his bed and pretend I was whole. I couldn't forget who I was — what I was sent here to do.

I wasn’t his lover.

Not anymore.

I was the agent who’d come here to tear down his empire.

Even if my hands shook.
Even if my heart fractured.

By midday, I had a plan.

He left the mansion with Tiger and Arthit. Said it was business. Said he’d be back by evening.

I watched them go from the window. Didn’t breathe until the black SUV rolled down the hill and disappeared through the gates.

Then I moved.

Fast.

I knew where he kept the spare car keys — bottom drawer of the cabinet in his office, under a false file labeled “J.W. Holdings.” Sloppy. For a man so guarded, it surprised me.

But maybe he didn’t think I’d leave.

Maybe he thought he’d won.

I stole a hoodie from the laundry. Tied my hair back. Wiped every trace of hesitation from my face.

I walked like I belonged.

The guards barely glanced up. I gave one a nod. He nodded back.

The garage door opened with a soft mechanical hum. The sleek matte-black sedan was already fueled. Ready.

Like fate was handing me the wheel.

I didn’t look back.

The engine purred to life beneath me, smooth and lethal. I shifted into gear and rolled down the long, winding drive. Past the gates. Past the perimeter.

Then I was on the road.

Wind in my face.
Jaw clenched tight.
Hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

I took the highway west — toward the border, toward the one safehouse I remembered still being active. I hadn’t contacted HQ in months. I didn’t even know if I was still considered part of the mission.

But none of that mattered.

Because if I didn’t leave now—

I wouldn’t leave at all.

If I waited one more day, one more night tangled in his sheets, I’d stop being an agent entirely.

I’d forget.

Forget the blood on his hands.
Forget the civilians.
Forget my father’s voice.

I drove faster.

Faster.

Like I could outrun the sound of his breathing behind me.
Like I could outpace my own betrayal.

Because this was wrong.

And I couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not when the whole world might burn because I chose comfort over justice.

Not when I still loved him.