MasukZADE'S POVI stopped on the opposite sidewalk and stared at the doors she had disappeared through. Panic rose fast and sharp, crowding out every other thought. All the worst possibilities arrived at once. Was she sick? Had something from the cellar — an infection, an injury that had never fully healed — finally caught up with her? I wanted to cross the street and go in after her.I wanted to push through the doors and demand answers from the first person in a white coat I saw.I stayed where I was instead. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of the black hoodie. Jaw locked so tight the muscles along it ached. Eyes fixed on the wide glass doors of the hospital without blinking. The fear sat heavy in my chest, right next to the tight pull of the healing bullet wounds. Every minute that passed made the worst possibilities feel more solid. I kept seeing her pale and hurting somewhere inside those bright walls. I kept thinking about how far she was from anyone who knew her real name or wha
ZADE'S POVI stood outside Nancy’s apartment building with my hands deep in the pockets of a black hoodie.The night air in this part of France was cool and carried the smell of rain that had fallen earlier, mixed with bread from a bakery somewhere down the street and the faint exhaust of passing cars. The building was quiet and ordinary — pale stone, rows of windows, a heavy wooden door that stayed locked after dark. Her apartment was on the third floor. I had counted the windows weeks ago until I was sure which one belonged to her.I had been watching over her ever since she came to France.It was the only reason I had forced myself out of that hospital bed before the doctors said I was ready. The wounds in my chest still pulled tight when I moved too fast. Breathing deep still hurt on the left side. But none of that mattered as much as knowing where she was. I needed to be close enough to see that she was safe. Close enough to step in if anything ever came looking for her again.I
NANCY'S POVOne month later.It had been a full month since I started my new life in France.My father had arranged everything the way he always arranged the important things — quietly, completely, and without leaving any loose ends for someone else to find. A new name that felt strange in my mouth the first dozen times I said it. New documents that listed a life I had never lived. A quiet apartment on a quiet street in a quiet part of the city where no one had ever heard the name Nancy Valentino. Money in an account that belonged only to me. A clean, empty life waiting for me to decide what to put inside it.I had even dyed my hair blonde.I stood in the small bathroom of the apartment the day I did it and watched the dark color disappear under the bleach. The chemical smell was sharp and unpleasant. When it was finished, the woman who looked back at me from the mirror was a stranger. Lighter. Softer around the edges. Someone who could walk through a market or sit in a café without a
NANCY'S POVHe did not soften the words or prepare me for them. He just said them.The relief hit me so hard and so fast that my eyes filled with tears before I could stop them. I pressed one hand over my mouth and breathed through the sudden shaking in my chest. He was not going to die. The bullets had not taken him. He was going to live.“Thank you for telling me,” I whispered. My voice came out thin and wet.My father only nodded. He asked if I had eaten. He told me to rest. Then he left me alone with the relief and the quiet tears and the knowledge that the man I loved was still somewhere in the world, breathing.A week passed.My body kept healing. The bruises faded from purple to yellow to almost nothing. I slept longer stretches of the night without waking from dreams of cold stone and rope and the sound of Zade’s voice. I still thought about him every hour, but the sharp panic had softened into something quieter and heavier, like a stone I had learned to carry.That was the da
NANCY'S POVJust that one word. Flat. Final. Absolute.“Dad, please—”“No, Nancy.” He stepped closer to the bed but did not sit down. His voice stayed quiet, but every word was sharp and certain and left no space for argument. “You are not going anywhere near him. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until I decide otherwise.”“He’s hurt.” The tears were falling freely now. I didn’t try to stop them. They ran down my face and dripped onto the soft fabric of the nightgown. “He got shot getting me out of that place. He stood between me and those men and told me to run even though he was the one who was bleeding. He—”“He is the reason you were in that place to begin with.” My father’s voice did not rise, but it grew harder with every word. “He worked for Viktor Russo. He lied to both of us from the first day. He put my daughter in the hands of my enemy. I will not have you sitting at his bedside like he is some kind of hero.”“I’m not asking you to call him a hero.” My voice broke completely
NANCY'S POVA massive blast that sent a shockwave through the helicopter’s hull even at the height we had reached. Orange light flooded the cabin for one blinding second.Where the compound had been there was only fire and smoke and falling debris.I pressed my hand against the cold glass and watched it burn through my tears.Viktor’s building. Viktor’s operation. Gone.I turned to my father.He was watching me with that same unreadable expression.“Thank you,” I whispered.He looked out his own window for a long time.Said nothing.But his hand, resting on the seat between us, moved one small inch toward mine.I put my hand over his and held on tight.And we flew away from the fire, into the dark, toward whatever came next.And in the helicopter ahead of us, the man I could not stop loving was bleeding.And alive.Just alive.That had to be enough for right now.Just alive had to be enough.The helicopter I was in took me straight to my father’s mansion.I barely remembered the landi







