Chapter 1
It'd been five years since I married Asher, and I'd never once gotten through to his encrypted number.
He was the CID's lead operative known as Drake Torch, and whenever he was on a mission, all comms went dark.
Everything changed the day I was hit by his female student.
The girl tapped her watch and said, "My teacher will take care of everything."
A bulletproof car screeched to a halt. Asher leapt out and threw a riot shield around the girl.
He rushed to check her injuries. He demanded, "Why didn't you follow the emergency protocol?" His voice was tinged with concern.
In that instant, I understood—his life monitor had always been keyed to her, and her alone.
*****
I dialed that encrypted number for the 53rd time.
All I got was that same cold, endless busy tone in my ear—just like every attempt these past five years.
It felt as if every press of my fingertip was against a block of ice, one that never thaws.
The phone was retro, a pale white relic perched on the nightstand.
Just like everything else in this bedroom, it pressed the illusion of home—a place crafted for me, but never truly mine.
Outside, the steady drizzle tapped against the glass, making the busy tone in my ear all the more shrill.
The digital clock blinked: 11:07 PM.
Asher had been gone dark for seventeen days straight.
The last time he reached out to me was the third of last month.
His message was as brief as a telegram: [Mission. No clue when I'll be back. Don't wait up.]
The words left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I tugged at the corner of my lips in a half-hearted smile, then hung up.
The busy tone vanished, replaced by nothing but the sound of rain. The emptiness pressed in, almost suffocating.
Five years married to Asher, and the one thing I'd truly mastered was waiting.
And learning to live with this pervasive, suffocating loneliness—always shut out from his world.
Asher was the CID's top agent, code-named Drake Torch.
Drake Torch was said to be a mythical beast that could bend light and shadow, see into the darkest corners of the underworld. It suited Asher perfectly—mysterious, powerful, and always just out of reach.
Asher was always on the most classified missions, disappearing for months at a time without a word.
At first, I used to worry myself sick, lying awake through the night, clutching my phone—scared I'd miss the smallest scrap of news that he was alive.
But over time, I came to realize: his world ran on strict rules, state-of-the-art tech, and secrets so heavy he'd stake his life on guarding them—and the country itself.
But not once did he reserve a place for me.
Not a single call connected.
That encrypted line was supposed to be his one lifeline to the outside world during missions. Theoretically, designed never to be busy.
I figured my number must've been set to auto-reject from day one—locked out long before I ever tried to call.
The rain outside was picking up, hitting the glass louder than before.
I started to move toward the window to shut it tighter, but just then, my cell phone rang out, slicing through the quiet.
A strange number pulsed on the screen, unfamiliar and out of nowhere.
My heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was Asher calling from another number.
My hand was practically shaking as I answered.
I said, "Hello?"
A young, male voice asked, "Is this Ms. Sterling?"
Realizing it was not Asher, relief flickered through me—only to be smothered a second later by an even deeper disappointment.
"Yes, that's me. May I ask who's calling?" I said.
The person replied, "I'm Jack, Mr. Cross's assistant. The Star necklace he ordered for you has arrived. When would be a good time for me to drop it off?"
I froze for a few seconds before the memory surfaced.
It was three months ago—my birthday. Asher was actually home for once, sitting on the couch, reading his briefings.
I was scrolling through my phone and accidentally opened a jewelry design. I casually remarked, "That's really pretty."
I couldn't believe it—he'd actually remembered. He'd even gone so far as to place the order, too.
I gripped my phone, completely at a loss.
Jack called out, "Ms. Sterling?"
I replied, "Thanks, but there's no need to deliver it."
Jack asked, "What do you mean?"
I said, "Could you just cancel it? Or handle it however you think is best."
Jack replied, "It's a custom piece Mr. Cross specially ordered. Canceling would probably need his approval."
"Then I guess we'll just have to wait until he's back," I replied.
With that, I hung up, a wave of irritation washing over me.
That necklace really was gorgeous.
But I didn't want this kind of charity, as if Asher was throwing me a bone to make up for things.
Or really, it was just his perfunctory way of making up for always being gone.
I grabbed my coat and my car keys. I needed some air, needed to get out.
If I kept staying here, trapped in this house filled with traces of Asher but without him, I'd suffocate.
Driving at night in the rain was hell.
I drove aimlessly through the city, not really going anywhere.
The radio was playing some sappy love song, and it just made me feel even more restless.
For reasons even I couldn't explain, I suddenly found myself turning onto a winding mountain road heading out of town.
This road led to an off-the-record CID family complex, the kind nobody but insiders even knew existed. Asher kept a temporary apartment there.
He'd crash there—maybe—if he happened to get one of those rare breaks between missions.
I'd never been there. It was always off-limits.
He told me the place was high security—no way I'd get through, so why bother and make things complicated?
But tonight, I wanted to see for myself.
Even if I only caught a glimpse from a distance, I wanted to see what kind of place he sometimes stayed at.
The road was almost empty.
The wipers swept back and forth in a steady rhythm, slicing through the curtains of rain that blurred my view.
At a sharp curve, blinding high beams suddenly cut through the darkness straight at me from the opposite direction.
They were coming way too fast.
My instincts took over—I jerked the wheel to the side and slammed on the brakes. But it was already too late.
A violent jolt crashed into the side of my car.
The airbag exploded, slamming into my face with brutal force.
Everything spun wildly.
My car careened out of control, scraping violently against the guardrail with a deafening screech.
Finally, it came to a halt.
I slumped over the steering wheel, my head spinning, my cheek burning with pain.
The sharp, chemical smell of the airbag powder filled the cramped space.
It took a long moment before my head finally cleared.
The car that hit me was a red sports car, speeding the wrong way around the curve.
Its front was just a bit dented—barely scratched compared to the wreck my car was in.
The sports car's door swung open, and a young girl in a trendy short skirt hopped out, striding over to my window and rapping on the glass.
There wasn't a trace of panic or apology on her face. If anything, she looked annoyed.
I rolled down the window, and rain and cold air blasted in.
The girl immediately snapped, "Do you even know how to drive? Turning drivers are supposed to yield. Are you serious? Ever heard of traffic laws?"
I nearly laughed out of sheer disbelief.
I shot back, "You were the one driving on the wrong side with your high beams."
The girl snapped, "Cut the crap." She sized up my car with a look of pure disdain and said, "Just give it to me straight, how much do you want? I don't have all day."
She acted like she hadn't just totaled my car—more like she'd accidentally knocked over a trash can.
I pushed the door open and got out, ready to argue.
But the second my foot hit the ground, agony shot up my left leg—I almost went down right there.
I looked down and saw a gash on my calf, blood mixing with rainwater as it trickled down.
The girl sneered, "Oh, so you're trying to pull a scam? Just so you know, my car's got a dashcam."
I took a deep breath, shoving down the anger bubbling inside me.
"Call the police. Let them deal with it," I said flatly.
At the word "police," something flickered across the girl's face—gone so fast I almost missed it. But she quickly slipped back into her smug, untouchable pose.
She raised her wrist, revealing a black, futuristic-looking watch.
She said, "No need to get the cops involved."
She tapped a button on the side of the watch with practiced ease.
The next second, the watch face lit up with a faint blue glow.
Then, she spoke into the watch in a sweet, spoiled tone, "Asher, I just got in a car accident—I'm at the third bend on the winding mountain road. The other person seems hurt and won't stop bugging me.
"Can you come take care of it for me? Pretty please?"
She then looked at me and said, "Anyway, whatever you want—money, anything—he'll sort it out for me."
Her gaze screamed confidence and pride.
Hearing the name "Asher", my heart gave a jolt. A chill, like an icy snake, crept up the length of my spine.
The rain hammered down, drumming wildly on metal and pavement—louder, messier, practically drowning everything else out.
Off in the distance, a low, throaty engine growled through the storm—getting close, way too fast, tearing this way like a bat out of hell.
It wasn't a cop car, and definitely not an ambulance.
The sound was thick, metallic—heavy enough to make the air itself feel tense and pressed in.
A blinding beam of light cut through the rain, so bright that it stabbed at my eyes and forced me to look away.
A massive, all-black vehicle with sharp, angular lines tore through the downpour like a beast from the shadows, screeching to a halt at the mouth of the alley.
It was a custom-built, bulletproof armored car.
There were no markings on the vehicle, but its deadly vibe hit one even with rain pouring down—every inch screamed danger.
The air around the car seemed to warp, faint ripples of electromagnetic interference spreading out—enough to set one's teeth on edge.
The door shot upward, and a silhouette I'd know anywhere jumped out of the armored cabin, moving like he'd done it a thousand times.
Black tactical gear clung to his tall, solid frame; there was still fresh blood smeared on his shoulder. A half-mask hid his face from the nose up.
But those eyes—the ones I'd stared at for five years, the ones that showed up in my dreams night after night—there was zero chance I'd ever get them wrong.
It was Asher. My husband.
On this stormy night—when he was supposed to be unreachable, off the grid—he came. One call from a girl, and he was here.
He didn't even look at me. He just ran straight to the girl.
He was carrying a compact riot shield, and the first thing he did was put himself in front of her, shielding her.
Like I—or the wreckage behind me—was some kind of threat.
He quickly checked the girl for injuries. The dark red smeared on his tactical gloves, catching the glare of the headlights, almost glowed against the night.
I didn't know whose blood it was—his, hers, or someone else's. Whatever the answer, none of it seemed important anymore.
He snapped, "Why didn't you use the emergency protocol when you got hurt? Do you even realize how dangerous that was?"
The girl pouted. She wiggled her watch and said, "I pressed it. You got here so fast, Asher."
Asher let out a breath, but his tone was still all authority and edge as he said, "You're being reckless. The life monitor showed your heart rate shooting through the roof—I almost thought..."
I couldn't catch the rest. My ears were ringing, the sound like a thousand bees suddenly loose in my head.
So, that's how it was. He wasn't kept from communication when he was on a mission. Not really.
It was just that his comms, his urgency, the system he trusted to judge if someone's safe or in danger—all of that had only ever been set to one person. Always her. His student.
And there I was—the legal wife who had been dialing that encrypted number for five years, never once getting through. Honestly, it was almost laughable—if it didn't hurt so much.
Rain mixed with the blood from my leg, soaking into my shoe—icy cold, but I couldn't feel a thing.
All I knew was that something in my chest—right where my heart should be—just snapped. One clean break. Gone.