Callum woke to silence.
The heavy kind of silence that follows a storm.
His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, ceiling unfamiliar in the soft morning light. The weight of the sheets told him he was in bed. Clean. Dry. Comfortable.
Not the last place he remembered.
His fingers curled into the sheets slowly. A faint ache pulsed behind his temples—too much rain, too many drinks, and too much… sorrow.
He sat up, sluggish. His shirt had been changed. His skin smelled faintly of soap and mint. His lips weren't dry. Someone had—
His thoughts wavered. He rose and walked to the bathroom.
The mirror didn't lie.
No trace of alcohol. No grime beneath his nails.
Memories came in splinters.
The rain.
That park bench.
The cigarette that refused to light.
And then—her.
Seraphine.
Her hand slapping him like thunder.
Her arms gathering him when he collapsed.
Her fingers wiping the vomit from his lips without a flicker of disgust.
Her voice, quiet and certain, guiding him into the car, into the house, and into their room.
Her hands unbuttoning his soaked shirt, drying his hair, dressing him as though he were something fragile she would never let break.
She spoke no pity. She offered no scorn.
And her face—calm, unreadable—haunted his thoughts even now.
Callum let the scalding water from the shower wash him awake. He stood beneath the spray until the ache in his mind eased, then toweled off and dressed in quiet ritual.
He followed the faint scent of herbs down the stairs.
The dining table was empty.
She was gone.
His appetite deserted him.
He left for work on an empty hunger.
In the car, his eyes never slept. Every curb. Every pedestrian. Every neon sign—he searched Dahlia in them all, even though he knew it was pointless.
By the time he stepped onto the executive floor, his mind was still tangled in half-remembered dreams. But then he saw her.
Seraphine.
Standing by the window in his office, hair drawn back, voice calm and cold.
"Mr. Virell, you're late," she said, staring at the wedding invitation...
Time froze beneath the gravity of their emotions.
One who is in sorrow.
One who finally understands the pile of yesterday's drunken nights.
As he took a hesitant step forward.
Sera looked at him, smiled, and almost comforting, but somehow, her voice remained challenging, "We must go, big man."
He stared at her.
Dahlia was to wed his cousin, Frederick- within three months.
His sorrow made sense now. Day after day, his heart was being thorn deeper and deeper. The kiss he asked, was not out of lust, but the desire to forget the way they kissed. The drunken nights weren't rebellion; it was his loudest cry.
Seraphine's calm face flickered, and she said, "I'll be gone for a month or more, but don't dare to elope with someone's wife."
Then, leaving the invitation in his hand, she added, "As I am good at hunting and killing beasts."
---
The command center's lights glowed pale against the pre-dawn gloom. Monitors hummed softly, tracking patrol routes and satellite feeds, while uniformed officers moved with purpose around them. Seraphine Elion stood at the head of a long table, shoulders squared beneath her dress uniform, eyes fixed on Dahlia and Frederick's wedding invitation.
Malik leaned against the console beside her—her most trusted intelligence officer, renowned for discretion. He toggled a few switches, then met her gaze.
"Sir?" he asked, voice low. "You wanted an update on Operation Iron Guard?"
Seraphine shook her head, her jaw tightening. "No. I need you to look into Dahlia and Frederick Virell's marriage arrangements."
Malik's brow furrowed. "But sir... The alliance between their families was private—civilian spheres, military intelligence has no jurisdiction."
Seraphine closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, then met his gaze with calm steel. "I know, but I need to know what happened, who facilitated it, and whether it's secure. I want guarantees that Dahlia will be in good hands. Otherwise…"
Her voice trailed off, but the threat hung in the air.
"Otherwise," she continued, "Callum will never be able to see me without emptiness in his eyes."
Malik nodded once, solemnly. "Understood, Sir. I'll open discreet channels—registry offices, notarial records, any off‑book transactions. We'll trace every signature, every wire transfer."
Seraphine turned back to the invitation, her fingers brushing its gilded edge. "Good. Report to me first thing. And Malik—If this leaks, I'll deny we ever spoke."
A faint click of agreement.
As Malik disappeared into the back corridors of the base, Seraphine allowed herself a single, measured breath.
---
After a long day, Seraphine paused mid‑stride at the threshold of the operations wing, her hand still on the heavy steel door. Behind her, Malik leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest—but the imperious set of his shoulders softened by an almost mischievous grin. His usual reserve was gone, replaced by a wide, genuine smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes.
She frowned, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You look positively pleased with yourself," she said, tone clipped but curious.
Malik straightened, as though snapping back into his professional posture, but the mirth lingered in his voice. "Someone's waiting for you, Sir," he answered, his lips pointing toward the service exit. "Jonas' friend, I guess."
Seraphine's lips pressed into a thin line. Then—almost imperceptibly—the tension in her shoulders eased. Her stern facade slipped for a heartbeat as something lighter flickered behind her eyes. "And you think I should hurry?" she asked, the faintest challenge in her voice.
His grin widened further, as though daring her to resist. "Do so, or he'll lose patience and leave."
Without another word, Seraphine pivoted on her heel. Her boots, which had clicked in precise rhythm through the base's corridors, now sounded almost tentative at first—then resolute as her stride lengthened, carrying her toward the gates with a speed born of anticipation rather than duty.
Outside, the rain had eased to a steady drizzle, droplets glinting under the basin lights like scattered diamonds. Beneath the diffuse glow, she spotted them: Jonas standing with professional poise, one hand holding a wide blue umbrella, the other holding a cigarette at his lips; Callum beside him, shoulders relaxed in a rare moment of ease, exhaling smoke that curled around his jawline.
As Seraphine drew near, her heart hammered in her chest, each step echoing with the quiet excitement.
Callum stubbed out his cigarette and waved at her.
When Seraphine was within a dozen paces, Callum closed the distance in two long strides, umbrella brandished like a shield.
"Why aren't you under cover?" he demanded, voice low but tight. "You'll catch a cold that way."
Seraphine paused, letting the mist bead on her lashes. She reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then tilted her head toward the umbrella.
"I would have been," she replied, voice calm, "if you'd been quicker to meet me."
Callum's mouth twitched—half admonishment, half something gentler. He leaned the umbrella toward her, and they walked toward the car.
He closed the umbrella with a softer touch, studying her face. The stern lines were still there—but so was a faint smile, edged in something like relief.
"Next time," he said quietly, "I'll be quicker."
Seraphine's lips never curved in the slightest upward arc, but her heart skipped a beat.
"You must."