Chapter 2

The hospital room was cold.

My shoulder throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the one in my chest.

From a beloved daughter of a philanthropist to a suspect's kin.

Overnight.

The nurses were polite but distant.

I was alone with my pain, physical and emotional.

The rich fabrics of my gala dress were replaced by a thin hospital gown.

My comfortable life felt a million miles away.

Two detectives came the next day.

A man and a woman.

They were formal, their questions sharp.

"Ms. Rodriguez, can you tell us about October 10th, three years ago?" the woman asked.

October 10th.

The day my mother supposedly died in a car accident.

The day my world first tilted, before Ethan shattered it completely.

"What about it?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"It was the day my mother... passed."

A memory surfaced.

Fuzzy at first, then sharp.

Dad, that night.

He came home late.

His suit was immaculate, as always.

But there was a faint, almost invisible scratch on his cheek.

And his eyes... they were haunted.

I'd asked him if he was okay.

He'd just hugged me tight and said he was tired.

At the time, I thought it was grief.

Now, a cold suspicion snaked through me.

"My father," I said slowly, "he had a scratch on his face that day. He said he got it at work."

After the detectives left, a uniformed officer stood guard outside my door.

I asked her, "Will Agent Cole visit me?"

A desperate, foolish hope flickered.

Maybe he'd explain.

Maybe there was a sliver of the man I loved left.

She looked at me with something like pity.

Or maybe it was disdain.

"Agent Cole's task is over, Ms. Rodriguez," she said, her voice flat.

"He won't be seeing you."

Task. That word again.

It felt like a slap.

My hope died, leaving a bitter taste.

The officer hesitated, then added, "Agent Cole is a professional. He has a fiancée."

Fiancée.

The word hit me harder than the bullet.

Ethan had a fiancée.

All those nights he held me, all those promises he whispered.

Lies.

All of it.

He wasn't just cold towards me now because of the mission.

He was cold because I was never truly his.

I was a means to an end.

A tool.

The pain in my shoulder was nothing.

This was a deeper wound, one that might never heal.

"His fiancée?" I managed to whisper.

My throat was tight.

"Can I... can I see a picture of her?"

I don't know why I asked.

Maybe I wanted to see the woman he truly loved.

The woman he didn't lie to.

The woman who wasn't a "task."

Or maybe I just wanted to torture myself more.