The wedding was flawless—too flawless.
The chandeliers in the Saint Delacroix ballroom sparkled like frozen starlight. Ivory roses curled around polished pillars, their petals dipped in champagne gold. A string quartet played a haunting rendition of Clair de Lune, soft and elegant. But none of it mattered to Elira Quinn.
Her hands were cold beneath the lace gloves. Her lips, painted a bridal blush, trembled with a smile she'd rehearsed in the mirror over and over.
Because today, she wasn't a bride.
She was a weapon.
Her eyes flicked across the crowd—politicians, billionaires, silent men in dark suits who didn't blink when the groom kissed her hand. Eyes that had seen bodies disappear. Eyes that would have recognized her... if she weren't so expertly disguised.
Elira Quinn wasn't her name.
Not legally. Not in the files buried ten stories below the National Intelligence Agency. Not in the memory of the mother she lost to a bombing orchestrated by the very man now sliding a diamond ring onto her finger.
Kill him. Within 30 days.
That was the assignment.
Her target: Caelum Virelli, tech mogul, philanthropist, and ghost king of a covert empire stretching across five continents. He dealt in weapons, data, and secrets. The kind that could collapse nations if whispered in the wrong ears.
He also looked... breathtaking.
Tall, impossibly composed in his custom-tailored suit, with sharp cheekbones and calculating gray eyes that flickered with mischief whenever he looked at her. And yet, beneath that smile was something coiled. Watching. Waiting.
She didn't trust him. But she couldn't let herself admire him either.
Not when she'd already memorized the pressure points on his neck.
Not when she had twenty-nine days left to end his life.
"Stunning," Caelum murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. His lips brushed her ear as they stepped into their first dance. "But not as stunning as a woman who keeps a Glock hidden under her garter."
Her breath hitched.
He was joking... wasn't he?
She laughed softly, covering the slip. "Careful, darling. That sounds like projection."
His smirk widened. "Of course. I'm the dangerous one here."
A single violin carried the melody as they glided across the polished floor. Guests smiled, clapped. To them, this was a fairytale union between two powerful dynasties.
To Elira, this was a ticking clock.
And Caelum? He was staring at her like he already knew how this story ended.
---
Later that night, as the ceremony faded into champagne-fueled chatter, Elira slipped into her private suite.
Caelum wasn't supposed to join her.
They'd agreed on "delayed intimacy" for show, per the contract she'd signed. She needed space, a chance to establish base operations. Her team would contact her via the secured comm she'd hidden in a box of scented candles.
But as she opened the armoire, she heard the door click.
Her heart jumped. She turned quickly.
He was already inside, unbuttoning his jacket, tie loosened just enough to be dangerous.
"I didn't summon you," she said, voice calm. Measured.
Caelum raised a brow. "Wife privileges. I thought we were past formalities."
Elira's eyes narrowed. "You're breaking the contract."
"Ah," he said, striding closer, "but the contract also said we should appear in love. And right now, the cameras outside this room are still watching."
Damn it.
She'd missed the surveillance cam near the chandelier. Rookie mistake. She blamed the dress.
Caelum stepped into her space, towering over her, but not touching. He smelled like citrus, dark leather, and something warm she couldn't name.
His gaze dropped to the hollow of her throat.
"You're not what I expected," he said softly.
She laughed, icy. "Most men don't expect their wives to kill them."
He paused.
And then—smiled. But not the smile from before. This one was sharper. Wilder.
"Elira," he murmured, "I know who you are."
Her heart stopped.
"I know your real name. I know you trained in NIA Sector 8. And I know Director Sloane sent you here to kill me."
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Her hand itched toward the hidden blade in her corset seam.
"But," he continued, voice almost amused, "you didn't know I intercepted the kill order before it ever reached HQ's mainframe."
Her blood turned to ice.
"So," she said slowly, "this marriage... was your idea."
Caelum smiled like a wolf. "I prefer to keep my enemies close. And I must admit, I was curious what kind of woman they'd send."
She lunged before he could finish the sentence.
Blade unsheathed, she slashed—clean, fast, precise.
He blocked it.
Not with a weapon. With his hand. Metal met skin. He caught the blade.
He bled.
And didn't even flinch.
"You really are good," he murmured, eyes alight. "But not good enough to surprise me."
She stared at him—at the crimson drip down his palm, at the insanity in his calmness—and whispered:
"What are you?"
Caelum leaned in, eyes on fire.
"Your only chance at survival."