The smell of freshly toasted sourdough and expensive Kenyan coffee filled the sun-drenched kitchen of the Miller penthouse. Ren stood at the marble island, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that looked lean but possessed the corded strength of high-tension cables. He was meticulously plating a poached egg, ensuring the hollandaise draped over it with artistic precision.
To anyone looking in, Ren was the ultimate "trophy husband." He was handsome in a quiet, grounded way—square jaw, eyes the color of dark flint, and a calm demeanor that made people feel safe.
"Ren? Have you seen my tablet?" Clara's voice drifted in from the hallway, followed by the frantic click-clack of designer heels.
She burst into the kitchen, a whirlwind of charcoal silk and corporate ambition. Clara Miller, CEO of Miller Tech, was the youngest woman to break the Fortune 500, and she looked every bit the part. Her hair was a sharp blonde bob, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"Left side of the vanity, charging next to your watch," Ren said without looking up. He slid the plate toward her stool. "Eat. You have the board meeting at nine, and your blood sugar is already dipping."
Clara paused, blinking at him. She softened for a brief second, leaning over the island to press a quick, frantic kiss to his cheek. "What would I do without you? You're the only thing in this city that actually works on schedule."
"I aim to please," Ren murmured, his voice a low, soothing vibration.
As Clara distractedly scrolled through her emails while shoving a forkful of egg into her mouth, she didn't notice the faint, dark smudge on Ren's right knuckles. She didn't notice that his breathing was perfectly rhythmic, despite the fact that forty-five minutes ago, he had been three miles away in a rain-slicked shipyard.
On the television mounted in the corner, a news anchor was speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
"...the attempted assassination of Senator Vane was thwarted late last night by an unidentified individual. Security footage shows a blur moving through fourteen armed mercenaries in under thirty seconds. Authorities are calling it a 'statistical anomaly,' though witnesses claim the air felt heavy, as if a predator had entered the room..."
Clara glanced at the TV, shivering. "The world is getting so dangerous, Ren. I'm glad you're here. Safe in the kitchen. I don't know what I'd do if you were out in that mess."
Ren smiled, a small, private curve of the lips. "I'm exactly where I want to be, Clara."
He walked behind her, his large hands settling on her shoulders. He began to knead the tight muscles of her neck. As he did, he subtly released a fraction of his Origin Pulse. It wasn't enough to be seen, but Clara's entire body suddenly flooded with a wave of heat. Her pupils dilated, and her breath hitched.
"Ren..." she whispered, her head tilting back against his stomach. "What are you doing? I'm going to be late."
"Just making sure you're relaxed," he said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against her scalp.
The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thick, charged with a magnetic tension that had nothing to do with the appliances. Clara felt a sudden, desperate urge to cancel her meetings, to drag this "simple" man back to the bedroom and see if he could apply that same terrifyingly focused energy to her.
But then, her phone chirped. A high-priority alert.
"I have to go," she gasped, breaking the spell and grabbing her bag. "I'll be late tonight. Dinner with the board. Don't wait up!"
She hurried out the door, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
Ren stood alone in the quiet kitchen. The softness left his eyes instantly, replaced by a cold, predatory vacuum. He picked up his own phone—a burner kept in a hidden compartment under the sink.
There was one message.
[The Syndicate knows Subject Zero is in the city. They've sent 'The Viper' to find you. She starts with the wife.]
Ren crushed the burner phone in his palm, the plastic and metal grinding into dust. He didn't look worried. He looked like a man who had finally been given an excuse to stop pretending.
"You should have stayed in the shadows," he whispered to the empty room.