I looked down.

Red spread across the white shirt beneath his ribs.

His blood was on my wedding ring.

And that was the moment I understood the first thing Dominic had lied to me about.

This marriage did not mean nothing.

PART 2 — THE MAN WHO TOOK THE BULLET

Dominic was heavier than I expected.

That is what I remember.

Not the gunshot.

Not the screaming downstairs.

Not the men rushing through the hallway.

His weight.

The way his knees buckled.

The way my back hit the wall as I tried to hold him upright.

“Dominic.”

His eyes were open.

Barely.

“Get down.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Emily, down.”

Another shot cracked somewhere outside the room.

Dominic twisted despite the wound, dragging me behind the bed.

Then his security team flooded the hallway.

Three men.

Black clothes.

Weapons drawn.

Someone shouted that the shooter was down.

Someone else called for a doctor.

I pressed both hands against Dominic’s side.

Blood pushed warm between my fingers.

“No.”

His hand closed around my wrist.

“We’ve established,” he breathed, “that you’re a poor liar.”

My eyes burned.

“What?”

“You’re saying no like that changes anything.”

“Stop talking.”

His mouth moved faintly.

“Bossy.”

“Dominic.”

His eyelids lowered.

I slapped his cheek.

“Don’t you dare.”

That got his eyes open again.

His gaze found my face.

Oddly calm.

“Are you hurt?”

I stared at him.

“You were shot.”

“Answer me.”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Then, unbelievably, relief crossed his face.

He had a bullet in his body and he looked relieved because I was unharmed.

Something inside me cracked.

“You idiot.”

“Probably.”

“Why did you do that?”

His eyes held mine.

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He said nothing.

Then his hand slipped away.

“Dominic?”

His eyes closed.

“Dominic!”

The bullet missed his lung by less than an inch.

That was what the private surgeon told me six hours later.

The hospital was small, discreet, and apparently accustomed to treating people whose medical records needed to become rumors rather than paperwork.

I sat beside Dominic’s bed wearing sweatpants someone had found for me and a sweater that smelled faintly of cedar.

His blood was still beneath my fingernails.

His chief of security, Luca, stood near the door.

He was broad, gray-eyed, and looked as if he had never fully trusted anyone in his life.

“The shooter was hired.”

“By who?”

“We’re finding out.”

“Was he the one who broke into my apartment?”

“No.”

“Was he involved with Richard Vale?”

“We don’t know.”

“You keep saying that.”

Luca’s jaw tightened.

“There are things Dominic has kept compartmentalized.”

“From me?”

“From everyone.”

I looked at the sleeping man in the hospital bed.

“Why?”

Luca gave me a strange look.

“Because caring about people is dangerous in his world.”

That sentence stayed with me.

An hour later, Dominic woke.

His eyes moved immediately to the chair beside him.

To me.

“You’re still here.”

Something about the words hurt.

“Where exactly did you expect your wife to go?”

His gaze rested on my face.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“Apparently I do. It remains useful.”

He flinched.

Barely.

But I saw it.

Good.

I wanted him to.

I leaned forward.

“You stepped in front of a bullet.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it was aimed at you.”

“Very observant.”

His voice was weak but dry.

I wanted to shake him.

“You told me this marriage meant nothing.”

“It was supposed to.”

The room went silent.

I stared.

“What does that mean?”

Dominic turned his head toward the window.

“Go get some sleep.”

“No.”

“Emily.”

“You don’t get to nearly die and then dismiss me.”

His jaw hardened.

I lowered my voice.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, he did.

“What was supposed to mean nothing?”

His eyes stayed on mine for a long time.

Then he whispered, “You.”

I stopped breathing.

Something terrible moved across his face.

“That came out wrong.”

“It certainly did.”

“I meant you were supposed to remain someone I could protect objectively.”

“An assignment.”

“Yes.”

“A responsibility.”

“Yes.”

“Useful.”

His mouth tightened.

“Yes.”

I nodded slowly.

“And then?”

Dominic looked away.

“Then you started painting.”

That was not the answer I expected.

“What?”

“You make a small sound when you’re concentrating.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Dominic.”

“You tuck your hair behind your left ear when you’re irritated. You drink coffee too late and complain when you can’t sleep. You pretend you don’t like old jazz, but you hum when it plays in the kitchen.”

My throat tightened.

He continued.

“You thanked Maria for changing the sheets.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“No one thanks Maria.”

“That sounds like everyone else’s problem.”

A faint smile.

Gone quickly.

“You remembered Luca’s daughter had a violin recital.”

“He mentioned it.”

“He mentioned it once.”

My eyes stung.

“What are you saying?”

Dominic stared at the ceiling.

“I’m saying I made a mistake.”

My chest hurt.

“Marrying me?”

“No.”

His eyes found mine again.

“Believing I could.”

Neither of us moved.

Then a nurse entered, and whatever had almost existed between us disappeared behind blood pressure readings, medication, and professional voices.

Dominic came home two days later.

His recovery changed us.

Not dramatically.

That would have been easier.

Instead, intimacy arrived in small humiliating pieces.

I helped him button a shirt because twisting hurt.

He taught me how to recognize the difference between Luca’s ordinary expression and his someone-is-about-to-die expression.

I painted in the studio while Dominic answered calls from the sofa.

Sometimes I looked up and caught him watching me.

Every time, he looked away.

One afternoon, I painted the ocean during a storm.

Dark gray water.

White foam.

A thin line of gold at the horizon.

Dominic stood behind me.

“What is that?”

“The sea.”

“I can see that.”

“Congratulations.”

“The gold.”

I studied the painting.

“Hope, I suppose.”

“You paint hope very small.”

I smiled faintly.

“Maybe I don’t trust it.”

His eyes moved to me.

“Neither do I.”

That evening, I cooked pasta.

Or attempted to.

Dominic looked into the pot.

“What happened?”

“Dinner.”

“It appears aggressive.”

“Eat it or bleed again.”

“That feels like a threat.”

“Marriage.”

He laughed.

A real laugh.

Low and surprised.

I froze.

So did he.

For three seconds, we simply looked at each other.

Then I laughed too.

And the sound filled the enormous kitchen.

For the first time since my father died, something inside me felt light.

That frightened me more than assassins.

Because I understood then.

I was falling in love with my husband.

And he had already promised me a divorce.

Three days later, Richard Vale’s body was found.

Not in a river.

Not buried.

Sitting behind the wheel of his car in a parking garage in Brooklyn.

Officially, suicide.

Dominic took one look at the report and said, “No.”

“How do you know?”

“He was left-handed.”

I stared.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“The weapon was found near his right hand.”

My stomach turned.

Dominic pushed the file across the table.

Inside was a photograph.

I wished I hadn’t looked.

Richard’s face was pale.