Author's Preface
[Irene]
The overnight stay at my childhood home yields nothing.
I spend the rest of the night staring at the wall of pillows between us, listening to the air conditioning and waiting to see what Jude will do next.
But when morning comes, he simply acts the part of the attentive husband over breakfast with Arthur—effortless, poised, and completely unreadable—before escorting me back to his estate.
His sudden willingness to let me stay isn't a lapse in security; it is his way of reminding me that I cannot get beyond his reach.
With Jude’s shadow growing heavier by the day, finding a clean window to trace my European contacts becomes nearly impossible.
I spend the early mornings in the suite's private bathroom, routing short bursts of data through secondary relays and listening for footsteps outside the door.
Every second on the network is a risk, but I need traction before Victor’s oversight committee closes in completely.
[ *** ]
By noon, the suffocating atmosphere of the estate drives me to take my lunch break away from the office, meeting Leo at a quiet, low-lit bistro three blocks from the firm.
Leo sits across from me, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten on his plate.
But instead of diving straight into data hashes or vault access protocols, he keeps steering the conversation away from our operation.
"You look pale, Irene," Leo says softly, leaning back against the worn leather booth.
"When was the last time you actually slept without checking over your shoulder?"
"I sleep fine," I lie, cutting into my salad. "Did you trace the Baltic routing logs?"
"I'm working on it," Leo dismisses, completely ignoring my attempt to pivot.
"I'm serious, Irene. You barely touch your food. Remember when we used to grab takeout on the pier and just talk? Before all this Verin business ate up your life?"
I pause, my fork hovering mid-air.
"Normal conversation doesn't keep me out of a cell, Leo. We don't have that luxury right now."
He sighs but lets it go.
For the rest of our lunch, he tells me about what's happening at home, giving me a brief glimpse of the life I'm trying to win back.
I nod in the right places, but my mind stays firmly on the clock.
[ *** ]
When the car drops me back at the estate later that evening, the house is dead quiet.
I step into the grand foyer, slipping off my coat, and make my way toward the primary lounge.
As I round the corner, the soft amber glow of the fireplace illuminates two figures seated by the hearth.
I stop dead in the doorway.
Sitting in one of the wingback chairs, a crystal glass of scotch resting in his hand, is the man with the faint, jagged scar running down his jawline—the very man I originally mistook for Jude before my marriage to the real Jude Verin.
He looks up as I enter, his dark eyes cutting across the room with a calm, dangerous familiarity.
Beside him, standing near the mantelpiece, is Jude.
Facially, they aren't twins.
Jude possesses sharp, polished, impeccably handsome features that radiate refined authority.
Milo’s face, by contrast, is harder, rougher around the edges, dominated by the jagged line cutting across his jaw.
Yet there's something unsettlingly similar about them.
They have the same broad shoulders, the same commanding posture, and the same intimidating presence.
They're almost exactly the same height, too.
Jude is perhaps a centimeter taller, a difference I'd barely notice unless they stood side by side.
"Ah, Irene," Jude says smoothly, stepping forward.
His voice is easy, carrying no surprise at my arrival.
"You're back early."
My eyes dart back and forth between the two men, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
"And... who is this?"
Jude smiles—a slow, unreadable curve of his lips—and gestures casually toward the scarred man in the armchair.
"This is Jude," Jude says casually, as though introducing a man with his own name is perfectly normal.
"A remarkable coincidence with the name, isn't it? He’ll be joining us on our trip this weekend."
A sudden wave of disorientation washes over me.
Jude? Another Jude?
The air in the room feels instantly thin and suffocating.
The man from the gala. The shared name. And now a trip—it hits me all at once.
"What do you mean, Jude?" I ask sharply. "Is this a joke?"
"If it confuses you too much," Jude replies mildly, his eyes fixed on my rising panic, "you can call him Milo. It makes things simpler for casual conversation."
Milo sets his crystal glass down on the side table and stands up smoothly, extending a hand toward me.
"Good evening, Mrs. Verin," Milo says, his voice deep and perfectly polite.
"It's a pleasure to finally be properly introduced."
I take a breath, keeping a cool expression as I step forward, placing my hand in his for a brief, polite handshake.
"Good evening, Milo."
I hold his gaze carefully, trying to read whatever lies beneath the polished greeting.
"I actually recall seeing you once. A long time back. At a private syndicate gala."
Milo doesn't shift his posture.
His expression doesn't change; he looks perfectly at ease, giving me nothing to work with.
"Is that so?" Milo replies smoothly, his tone carrying an effortless confidence without the slightest falter.
"I must apologize for missing you. It seems I didn't notice you there."
"Hard to miss, considering the scene," I press, watching his eyes and the set of his shoulders for any sign of discomfort or recognition.
"You were shouting at a group of older men near the gallery entrance."
A dry, sarcastic smirk touches the corner of Milo's lips.
"Ah. Then I owe you an apology for forcing you to witness such uncivilized theatrics, Mrs. Verin."
I keep my eyes locked on him, dissecting his every move, searching for any hint of a break in his story.
"You seem exceptionally interested in my guest, Irene," Jude interrupts, as he steps between my line of sight and Milo.
I turn back to him, forcing myself to leave the questions unanswered for now.
Across the room, Milo raises his glass in a mocking toast.
Jude offers no further context for why a man who shares his presence sits comfortably in his private lounge.
"You mentioned a trip," I say, turning my full attention back to Jude.
"We aren't going anywhere, Jude. I have work at the firm, and we both know this marriage isn't—"
"The trip is arranged directly by Victor himself, Irene," he interrupts, his voice dropping into a low, firm pitch that leaves zero room for argument.
"It's not a vacation. It's our delayed honeymoon. Victor has arranged a series of international galas and private summits, and we'll be attending them together. We have dignitaries to meet, foreign investors to appease, and syndicate partners to reassure for the firm’s upcoming expansion."
Victor's name is enough to kill my argument.
A command from Victor Verin is not a request; it is an absolute mandate.
Refusing it publicly would destroy the fragile narrative of compliance I've spent weeks building.
I stand in the dim lounge, caught between Jude's demands, Milo's unsettling presence, and Victor's authority.
I swallow hard, forcing my posture straight, turning my sudden panic into cold, calculated focus.
I have to accept it. I have no choice.
Still, curiosity gets the better of me.
This trip gets me out of the heavily monitored estate.
It puts me right in the center of Victor’s elite international circle, surrounded by foreign dignitaries and corporate partners.
And more than that, it brings me face-to-face with the mystery of Milo.
If this trip takes me deeper into the Verin network, that's where I'll find what I need to bring it down.
I look Jude straight in the eyes, my voice unyielding.
"I'll pack my bags."
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