Page 178 of Lady and the Hitman
“You. As you are. Not after you’re fixed. Not after you’ve figured it all out. Just now.”
I swallowed. “Then, I’m yours.”
He didn’t speak.
So, I did.
“But I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer it like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever asked. Because it is.”
His gaze sharpened, all the teasing and heat evaporating like mist burned off by sun. “Ask.”
“The woman on the flash drive,” I said, voice low,tight. “The others, too. The ones labeled Lady. I don’t want to guess. I don’t want to assume I’m different when I might not be.”
His brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaw ticking once before he reached for me—slowly, deliberately—taking my hand. “You’re not a file, Zara. You’re not a code name or a folder or a mistake I kept as penance.”
I held his gaze, breath caught.
He went on, voice low but certain. “The others … they were people I helped. Protected. Sometimes it got messy. Sometimes it meant crossing lines. But they weren’t mine. Not like this. Not like you.”
I blinked. “So, what am I?”
His eyes didn’t flinch. “You’re the first one I couldn’t walk away from. The first one I wanted a future with. The only one I gave a choice.”
I hesitated. “Some of the women on that drive … it wasn’t just one night. There were photos, videos. Weeks. Months, even.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d expected the question. “Some of them needed longer. For safety. For healing. I stayed until they were clear of whatever they needed to be clear of. But that was all it was—a mission. I watched over them. Not like this.”
My chest tightened. “And the intimacy I saw?”
“Not love,” he said, voice steady. “I recorded everything because I needed a record. Because in my world, proof is safety. In case things went sideways or someone came after them later.”
I studied his face, searching for anything that would suggest a lie.
He let me.
Then, softer, “Zara, you aren’t a mission. I decided that way back in Miami. I showed up for you, anyway.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
“And you’re the only woman who ever looked at all of me—and still said yes.”
My throat burned. My heart felt too big for my chest.
“I needed to know,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said. “And you deserve to.”
Only then did he lean in and kiss me again—this time like a vow.
It wasn’t about need or tension or desperation.
It was about choice.
About the fact that after all the secrets and fear and silence—we were still here.
Still choosing.
