Chapter 4

Ivy

Waking up in an unfamiliar bed—again.

I reached under the pillow, my hand searching automatically. Something was wrong. Where was my gun?

Oh, right. The P230 was hidden in Vivian's room.

Right, right. I was now Mrs. Sinclair. At least nominally. Unless Vivian came back.

I stretched toward the nightstand and grabbed my phone. 7:31 AM. No unread messages, no missed calls, the notification bar completely clean—nothing at all.

I stared at the screen for a long moment.

Back in the safe houses, checking my phone had always been the first thing I did after waking. The handler would send intel before each job—sometimes a brief, sometimes encrypted files, sometimes just a string of coordinates. Information meant survival. If I ever woke up to find nothing on my phone, it would mean the end: either the handler was dead, or I'd been abandoned, or it was time for "cleanup on aisle one."

So what did this mean now?

I blinked a few times, flipped the phone face-down on the nightstand, and lay there a while longer.

This place was too comfortable.

Especially this bed.

Safe house beds were never comfortable. Sometimes you had to check whether the previous occupant had left anything behind, and you'd always wake up with some degree of back or neck pain. I once knew someone in the business who'd spent over two thousand dollars on a custom mattress and enthusiastically explained to me about support, breathability, and sleep quality.

At the time, I'd thought she was completely insane. A bed was just for sleeping, wasn't it?

Turns out she'd been right.

A good mattress really did offer just the right amount of softness—similar to Vivian's.

But I wasn't quite used to it yet. After two consecutive nights of poor sleep, I suddenly didn't know what to do with myself.

Seven-thirty in the morning. No assignment, no need to wait for the handler's briefing, no target to handle.

How novel.

For the past dozen years, all I'd thought about was how not to die on a job, and now I didn't have to worry about it anymore.

I sat up in bed.

The other side was empty. Sebastian must have gotten up much earlier.

I climbed out of bed and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to look out. Outside was a neatly trimmed lawn, with a patch of woods visible in the distance. From the bedroom's vantage point, the location was well-chosen.

Any sniper would have to hide in those woods, and from this angle, the sightlines over there would be terrible. If I were doing reconnaissance, I wouldn't choose that spot either.

After washing up and changing clothes, I headed downstairs.

Rounding the corner, I could see into the living room. One of the floor-to-ceiling windows stood half-open, and the furniture—sofas, coffee table—was all done in light tones. On the coffee table sat a book, opened halfway through and placed face-down.

Sebastian stood by the kitchen island, holding a cup and staring at a tablet computer. He'd changed into a light gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, his hair more casual than yesterday with a few strands falling across his forehead. Perhaps hearing my footsteps, he looked up.

Breakfast was already laid out on the island.

I walked over and sat down on the opposite side. The place settings had been arranged in advance, and the food looked freshly prepared. I didn't bother overthinking it—having something to eat was already pretty good.

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine."

I looked at him. His expression was written all over his face.

He didn't believe me.

"All right, I'm not quite used to it yet."

To be precise, I was very much not used to it. Before, I'd always kept weapons close, set up alerts behind doors, confirmed escape routes in advance, and planned how to respond if I was being watched. Last night, I'd just climbed into bed without checking any of that.

"Changing environments does take some adjustment," he said, his tone casual. "It's safe here."

I made a vague sound of acknowledgment, picked up a piece of bread, took a bite, and focused on working through breakfast. The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread, with sunlight falling across the lawn outside the window. Completely unreal. Sitting across from me, he didn't say anything more, just looked down at his tablet screen and occasionally sipped his coffee.

The doorbell rang at that moment.

I glanced toward the entrance. Sebastian looked up and set his tablet on the counter. "That should be them."

Then he raised his voice slightly: "Come in."

The door opened. The first person to enter was a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back impeccably, wearing a crisp housekeeper's uniform and white gloves. She nodded to me first, then stepped aside to clear the doorway.

A man walked in ahead of the others. Dark brown hair, navy suit, briefcase in hand, walking with his back ramrod straight. As he entered, his gaze habitually swept the interior.

Possibly a professional. Hard to say for certain yet.

I recognized this person.

Yesterday at the wedding, he'd spoken with Sebastian about something—this should be his deputy, Warren.

Willow followed behind Warren, dressed today in a dark suit jacket paired with black slacks, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. As she entered, her gaze paused on me for a moment before moving away.

The housekeeper walked to the kitchen area, opened a cabinet to retrieve clean cups, and began preparing tea. Her movements were efficient—pouring hot water, adding tea bags, carrying everything to the coffee table—all without making any unnecessary noise. After setting everything out, she withdrew to a position between the dining area and living room, neither leaving nor deliberately approaching.

Warren set his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out a document, handing it to Sebastian. "The property assessment report for the East District—the real estate people finished compiling it. And the draft schedule for next week. Review it once more."

I kept my head down, cutting the bacon on my plate.

Back in the safe houses, if people discussed work in front of me, it usually meant one of two things: either they were preparing to recruit me, or they didn't consider me a living person at all.

This was clearly a third scenario.

They were treating me as Sebastian's wife.

Sebastian took the papers and stood there flipping through a few pages, his brow furrowing slightly. "This East District report has discrepancies with the last data set. Was the source verified?"

"Double-checked. The appraiser changed—the previous one resigned. The new batch of data is more conservative."

"All right, I'll review it again."

Willow pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over. "Regarding that communications pathway you asked me to trace earlier—I've locked down several suspicious nodes, but haven't confirmed the source yet. Need a few more days."

Sebastian glanced at the screen and handed it back. "Keep monitoring. Don't spook anyone."

"Understood."

If Warren was the type who handled coordination and execution, then Willow seemed more like someone who processed information—the latter being harder to deal with and not easily fooled.

The three of them talked by the coffee table for less than ten minutes. Warren's voice wasn't loud, but every word was audible—schedules, documents, properties, nothing particularly noteworthy. After about ten minutes, he closed his briefcase and stood up. Willow occasionally supplemented his points, sometimes using technical terminology.

"That's all for now."

I kept my head down, finished the fried egg on my plate, and took another sip of water. Warren left first. He closed his briefcase, stood, nodded goodbye to me, and walked toward the door.

Willow followed behind him, but turned back to look at me when she reached the entryway. "If you need anything, just say so."

"All right."

I'd instinctively wanted to say "I won't need anything," but swallowed the words before they left my mouth. I was Vivian now—naturally entitled to these "services."

She said nothing more, turned, and left, closing the door behind her.

The housekeeper approached with the teapot and refilled the cup in front of me. I looked up at her. She appeared to be in her early fifties, with gentle eyes. Seeing me watching her, she straightened and inclined her head slightly.

"Mrs. Sinclair, my name is Marta," she said, her voice neither too loud nor too soft. "Mrs. Margaret arranged for me to come take care of your daily needs. If you require anything in the future, just let me know."

Someone sent by Margaret.

So I suspected "taking care" probably meant more than just its literal definition—she was likely worried I might slip up in front of Sebastian.

"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate it."

I finished breakfast and stood up from the island.

Sebastian came downstairs after putting away the documents. He looked at me and said, "We're going to my parents' place at noon. Are you ready?"

I froze for a moment.

"Now?"

"This is your first time formally meeting them. No need to be too nervous."