San Francisco — Present Day
Donovan Global Security didn't look like a corporate headquarters. It looked like the kind of place where secrets went to die. No reception desk, no welcome brochure, no fake smiles. Just thick bulletproof glass, silent cameras that blinked like predators, and walls the color of gunmetal. The kind of silence that could smother a scream.
Audrey Rousseau's heels cut through it like a blade.
Click. Click. Click.
The marble floor gleamed, and so did her reflection—calm, composed, lethal. But beneath the sharp lines of her trench coat, something coiled tight in her chest. Restless. Unresolved.
Two years.
Since Djibouti.
Since she walked away without looking back.
Since she kissed him like it was goodbye—and meant it.
The security guard glanced up from his desk and blinked. She saw the shift in his eyes—the subtle calculation. Beautiful, yes. But dangerous. He sat a little straighter.
"Uh—can I help you?"
Her voice was smooth, low, touched faintly by France. "I have an appointment. Sebastian Donovan. Nine o'clock."
The man hesitated, checking the screen. Then again, as if doubting what he saw. "You're not... with the Department of Defense?"
Audrey smiled—thin, sharp, the kind you could bleed from. "Non. But he'll want to see me."
A beat. Then a buzz. The glass door clicked open. "Top floor," he said, too fast. "He's expecting you."
Is he?
She hadn't used her name. Just a message:
We have unfinished business. Meet me.
Enough to stir the beast.
The elevator opened with a mechanical sigh. She stepped inside, alone. The kind of alone that hummed in your bones. As the numbers climbed, Audrey peeled off her gloves one finger at a time. Her hands were steady. Her heartbeat wasn't.
She told herself this was a mission. She told her handler.
She nearly believed it.
But there was a storm behind her ribs. The kind that had a name. The kind that wore a tailored suit and the ghosts of war on his skin.
Ding.
Top floor.
The doors slid open to a different world.
Glass walls cut through morning fog like a blade. Sleek furniture. Brutal minimalism. No warmth. No clutter. A space designed to keep emotion out—and control in.
At the far end of the office stood a man. Back to her. Staring out at the skyline.
He turned.
And just like that, the years fell away.
Sebastian Donovan.
He hadn't softened. If anything, he'd grown sharper—taller, broader, darker. His shirt was black, top buttons undone, revealing the scar she'd left near his collarbone. His jaw was still a weapon. His eyes—steel-gray and impossible to read—latched onto her like she was both the threat and the cure.
"Rousseau," he said.
His voice.
Still deep. Still rough. Still dangerous.
"Donovan."
Silence stretched. Then he stepped toward her.
"I thought you were dead."
She tilted her head, lips curving without warmth. "You'd be surprised how hard I am to kill."
A laugh—low, dark, disbelieving.
"You walk in here like we don't have a war between us?"
"I walked in because there's no one else who can help me."
She moved closer. Measured. Controlled.
"But don't flatter yourself. I'm here for the mission."
His smirk twisted. "Let me guess. You need access, resources, protection?"
He paused. "Or just closure on that kiss you left in Djibouti."
She stopped just short of him. The air buzzed between them.
"You're still arrogant."
"You're still a storm I haven't outrun."
He stared at her like she was a loaded weapon—and he'd forgotten whether he wanted to fire it or cradle it.
"What's the angle?" he asked.
Audrey didn't flinch. She pulled the leather folder from under her arm and let it slide onto the desk between them. It hit with a whisper. The kind that preceded detonation.
"Last week, I intercepted chatter. Encrypted. Buried deep. A contract was issued on your name. Not just Donovan Global. You."
He didn't touch the folder yet.
"And you just happened to be nearby when the intel dropped?"
"I requested the assignment."
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because someone inside your walls is feeding information to a trafficking network that stretches from West Africa to Eastern Europe. And whoever it is—knows your movements. Your habits. Your vulnerabilities."
Now he opened the folder.
One photo.
One message string.
One list of assets marked for liquidation—including his.
He looked up, all pretense gone.
"You came back... to protect me?"
She met his eyes without blinking. "No. I came back because if you die, everything burns with you. And I'm not done yet."
He stepped forward slowly, gaze heavy. "You're lying."
She shrugged. "Only partly."
"You don't do anything without an angle. So what's the part I'm not hearing?"
Her voice dropped. "This isn't about debts or missions or protecting your ego. It's about stopping something worse than both of us."
His breath caught slightly. Just enough.
"And if I say no?" he asked.
"You won't," she said, moving even closer. "Because you don't trust anyone else. And deep down, you know this isn't just about intel. It's about us. You and me. The things we never said."
He stopped when they were breath apart.
"You still get under my skin."
"You never got out from under mine."
The heat between them sparked again—sharp, sudden, volatile. He reached for her—then stopped himself.
She whispered, "Don't."
"I'm not sure I can."
And just like that, restraint snapped.
Their mouths met in a collision of memory and rage and longing. Not a kiss—an invasion. A reckoning.
His hands were fire. Hers were vengeance.
Two years of silence ignited in seconds—lips, teeth, breath tangled in something far too violent to be called affection and far too desperate to be anything else.
When they broke apart, breathless, raw, his hands still on her waist, she whispered:
"This doesn't change the mission."
Sebastian leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed.
"No," he said quietly. "But it changes everything else."
Outside the glass wall, the sun burned through fog.
Inside, the past was back with teeth.
And someone wanted them both dead.