Elara POV:
On the evening before his trip, Brendan insisted on one last grand, romantic gesture: a walk on our private beach at sunset.
It was the place where he'd once promised to build a world with me. Now, it just felt like a stage.
As the sky bled into shades of orange and purple, fireworks erupted over the ocean.
They burst into shimmering letters, spelling out a glittering, temporary lie: B + E.
Brendan wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"I love you, Elara," he whispered, his voice thick with a manufactured emotion I no longer recognized. "Forever. You and me."
A little girl, the daughter of one of his Soldiers, came running up the beach toward us, her face alight with joy.
She held out a bright green glow stick.
"For the princess," she said, handing it to me.
Brendan beamed, swelling with pride at the public display of his perfect life.
I took the glow stick, its chemical light cool against my palm. I offered the little girl a genuine, sad smile. Then I gently handed it back to her.
"Some beautiful things shouldn't be shared with people who don't deserve them," I said softly-my words aimed at the child, but loud enough for Brendan to hear.
He frowned, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
"Do you want children, Brendan?" I asked, turning to face him.
The question hung in the salty air between us.
He evaded, launching into a familiar speech about timing, about the dangers of our life. Then, seeing the look on my face, he relented.
"Yes," he said, forcing a warm smile. "I want a daughter. Just like you."
My gaze drifted to the side of his neck. And there it was, partially hidden by the collar of his expensive shirt: a fresh hickey.
A dark, angry mark against his skin.
It was so brazen, so careless. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.
A weariness so profound it felt heavier than grief settled deep in my bones.
The fight was gone. The anger was gone. All that was left was the hollow echo of what we used to be.
"I want to go home," I said, my voice flat.
His phone rang, shattering the curated romance of the moment. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting.
"It's an emergency at the docks," he said quickly, already backing away. "A Family matter. I have to go."
He rushed off without a backward glance.
I watched him go, a solitary figure on a stage set for a play that had already ended.
I pulled out my own phone and called the motor pool.
"I need a car," I said to the dispatcher. "A civilian vehicle. Unmarked."
When the driver arrived, a young recruit I didn't recognize, I got into the back seat.
"Follow the Don's car," I instructed, my voice calm and steady. "Keep your distance."
