Chapter One

JUSTINE

 

The first time I flew to Paris, I was twenty.

I didn’t have a first-class seat, but back then, it didn’t matter. Knowing I was going to paint surrounded by masterpieces I’d only seen in books and slideshows overwhelmed everything else. It was my capstone year in college, and even now, the memories feel more like a dream. Happiness seemed inevitable, with the brightest future in front of me I could possibly imagine. After I came home and graduated, I met the man who would one day be my husband. In a few short years, we were married.

It was all a façade. I lost my art, my friends, my dignity, and half my sanity to Richard’s abuse. By the time he’d devoured a decade of my life, I was convinced there could be no way out. Then I met the person who made everything right.

Campbell sits next to me in a cushy blue seat, gray eyes locked on the murder mystery they bought from the terminal on our way in. They’ve already made it halfway through the book, only taking breaks between chapters to nurse the cool glass of water by their elbow. The same hands holding their drink with care, turning pages without leaving a single crease in the spine, are responsible for killing Richard without a hint of remorse.

There are a lot of ways and reasons to love someone. I don’t love Campbell because they’re a killer, but it’s not despite that either. They’re utterly confident, competent, and quick-witted, which makes them very good at their job, but what’s under the mask is what I care about. When they’re protective of me, when they’re grieving, when we’re in bed and it’s as if the world has shrunk down to fit the two of us and no one else.

Somehow in the scheme of things, murder barely makes the list.

“You’re smiling,” Campbell says, eyes still focused on the book.

I startle a little bit. After how we met, I should be used to their ability to read everyone around them, but repeated exposure doesn’t make it any less uncanny. “How can you tell when you’re not even looking at me?”

“Emotion doesn’t only show on the face. Whether we’re smiling or bracing for impact, it goes through the whole body in a hundred subtle ways.” Campbell’s gaze meets mine, dark with amusement. “But I did look at you. You were too busy staring at my hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of my neck. Guilty as charged. “You have very nice hands.”

They accept the compliment with a quick flash of teeth. “Yet I don’t think that’s what was on your mind.”

If we were elsewhere, I might have kissed Campbell or drawn them close, whispered all the thank-yous and apologies brimming on my tongue. Except we’re on a plane with a hundred other people, and even the privacy curtain can’t make me so bold.

I settle for shifting in my seat to lean my head against their shoulder. Campbell adjusts slightly, making the angle more gentle for my neck. They make no comment on my silence, turning to the next page, but their attention on me lingers. Drawing Campbell’s eye is its own sort of satisfaction.

“I have a silly question,” I say.

Campbell gestures with the book. “The mystery part of this murder is a four out of ten at best, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

A soft laugh leaves my lips. “No. I…”

Are they going to take offense to me asking? I know it’s possible, but I’ll take full responsibility either way.

“Is Campbell your first or your last name?”

They raise a brow, but it’s followed by silence. I’m about to apologize when a smile slowly pulls across their lips.

“You fell for me without knowing the answer?”

Now I’m flustered for an entirely different reason. “Yes. I mean, I know it’s your name; I just…feel like I’m missing context. Never mind. I said it was silly.”

“It’s not,” Campbell counters, the mirth fading from their face. “I know everything about you, Justine. At least, a lot more than I should for someone who never asked those questions.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way.

They set the book down in their lap, holding the page with one knee before reaching into their jacket. It’s a nice one, made of black, butter-soft leather and tailored perfectly to Campbell’s frame. I’m not sure what they’re looking for until Campbell pulls out their passport, offering it to me between two fingers.

“See for yourself.”

I can’t hide my surprise. When I reach for it, their hand subtly tightens, keeping the thin blue cover held between us.

“But this is only for you,” Campbell adds quietly. “It’s not for anyone else to know.”

The enormity for what they’re trusting me with sinks in, and suddenly I’m a little nervous about what I’ll see. Yet it’s not fair to back down now, especially when Campbell is trying to balance things out.

They let go of the passport, and I bring it down in my lap, half hidden by my other hand on the off-chance someone walking down the aisle might see. On the outside, it’s identical to any other American passport, emblazoned with a golden eagle.

Inside, the first page has Campbell’s picture. It’s pretty recent, although their hair is fresh from a cut. Even with the soul-killing light everyone has to stare into for their government shots, they pull off a quiet charisma, with the faintest smile on their lips. I know it’s forced—their real smile looks a lot different.

I read their name two or three times. It’s not hard to remember or anything, but such a personal truth needs my full attention. They were born in December, a little less than six years after I was, somewhere in California I’ve never heard of. Rather than an M or F under Sex, there’s simply an X.

“You got this under the new legislation?” I ask.

Campbell nods. “It was up for renewal, so the timing couldn’t have been better. Some of the border agents don’t like it, but I have precheck for security and Global Entry, which cuts through a lot of red tape.”

They’d waltzed through security at the terminal this morning. “Remind me to apply whenever we’re back in the States.”

“It’s nice. Nothing but a metal detector, no body scans. I’ve never been a huge fan of those, considering.”

No, they wouldn’t be.

After a curious flip through the visa pages—the passport can’t be more than a year old, yet it’s a veritable scrapbook of stamps and stickers—I hand it over. Campbell buries the passport back into their pocket, then smooths out the line of their jacket again. “Satisfied?”

Suddenly, I don’t care how many people are on the plane. I turn and kiss them, lingering close. No one here knows I’m supposed to be a widow, and I want Campbell to be sure nothing’s changed between us.

“How did you pass so many background checks?” I murmur against their lips.

“Don’t you know?” they whisper. “I’m a very successful consultant with clients all over the world.”

A consultant. It takes everything in me not to laugh.

“Miss?” The voice behind me is gentle, carefully polite, and most certainly one of the flight attendants. I pull away from Campbell, clearing my throat and doing my best to meet her eyes. “We’re about to start our descent. Do you need anything to drink on the way down?”

Not when there’s already a tall glass of water in the seat next to me.

“I’m fine, thank you” is what I say aloud.

Campbell offers their empty cup, presenting the perfect opportunity for her to leave us in peace.

I should be embarrassed, but instead, there’s a giddy thrill, like a teenager stealing their first kiss. Then again, when the person who saved you from a decade of pain disappears, only to come back with fifty grand, an apology, and love on their lips—it deserves a little giddy.

Campbell finishes their book on the slow climb down. We’re close enough to the front of the plane that it only takes a minute to disembark into Charles de Gaulle International, where dozens of people are waiting to take the same plane back across the ocean.

One is a young woman crushed tight into her seat, hunkered over a phone with its charger wedged into the wall. The screen is a dull black.

“Come on. I’m going to be on this plane for hours,” she mutters.

Campbell clears their throat, and her attention snaps upward. “Would you like something to read?”

Her eyes widen. “Yes. Absolutely.”

They hand her the book, which she takes with open relief. The woman smiles, and Campbell smiles back, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice.

No one does. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being with Campbell in public, it’s that they exist seamlessly in the world around them. They project an aura of pleasant ambiguity, slotting into everyone’s kindest expectations, whether of a bored stranger or an idle security guard. The idea of an incredibly prolific assassin walking among them is so absurd, it wraps around Campbell as a disguise. They’re untouchable.

Yet in a way, I understand. I certainly didn’t see Richard for who he was when we first met, and if I hadn’t hired Campbell myself, I would have never picked them off the street as a killer. The world is full of monsters, big and small, and the people who cut them out of the world blend in exactly the same. It’s the only way to get close enough.

Their hand presses against the small of my back. The touch is grounding, bringing me back to the present—and the border control officer looking our way.

“Is everything all right?” Campbell asks softly. “Don’t be nervous. I’ve done this a thousand times.”

I straighten up, embarrassed. “It’s not that. I’m fine.”

We walk up to the little glass booth together and hand over our passports. The officer—Dault, according to his name tag—has to flip through Campbell’s for a while before finding a blank page.

“What’s the reason for your visit?” he asks. “Business or pleasure?”

Campbell’s smile returns, polite and distant. “Pleasure. We’re staying at a villa in Montfort-l’Amaury.”

The officer nods. “How long?”

“A month.”

His eyes flicker toward me. “Do you have anything to declare for customs?”

“No.” I didn’t ask how Campbell got their guns through security, but it went smooth as silk. “I brought a lot of clothes and a lot of extra suitcases.”

Dault chuckles. “Have you been to France before?”

“Yes, but it’s been a very long time. And I never went far outside Paris.”

He mutters in approval, then stamps both of our passports. “Good. The countryside has as much to offer as the city. Enjoy your stay.”

Campbell and I sweep through the maze of barricades and out to the baggage claim. I start to look for our carousel, but they gesture to a young woman standing over in the corner. She has our bags already and is holding a tablet with ZHANG displayed across the front.

“I hope you don’t mind me using your maiden name,” Campbell says.

Elation is a pleasant shock, rippling up my spine like a phantom touch. Getting a new passport on such short notice was impossible, so I took the one I had from home. My surname is the last standing connection I have to Richard, irritating at best and excruciating at worst, depending on the day.

“Can you always use it?” I ask.

Campbell nods, showing no hesitation. “Of course.”

A car is waiting outside the airport for us, too, and the driver, a gray-haired gentleman, addresses us in English. I’m about to comment on it when Campbell settles in beside me on the seat and closes the door.

They raise a brow, curious. “So, how’s your French?”

“I’m not a native speaker, but I can hold a conversation pretty much anywhere, especially if it’s about art.” I took language classes all through high school and college because for a girl with interests in the classics, it was either this or Italian. My mother has always loved French movies—if my name wasn’t a clue—so the choice was easy. “How about you?”

“Terrible.”

Campbell’s tone is so absent affect I’m not sure if they’re teasing or being deadly serious.

“Really?” I err on the side of teasing. “So you do have a weakness.”

Amusement flares through gray eyes. “You’re my weakness. I picked up some Arabic in the service, but everywhere else, I only know the basics. Directions. How to ask for a hospital. What number people use to call the police.”

Every joking comment at the tip of my tongue falls to pieces at you’re my weakness. Campbell said it so matter-of-factly, as if I’ve been a part of their life from day one. I place a hand on their thigh, and Campbell’s fingers skim over mine before offering a light squeeze.

“Is this okay?” I ask, whisper-soft. “We never really talked PDA.”

“Because I’ve never been with a woman who knows what I do for a living,” they admit, just as quietly. “Before you, it was…”

I give Campbell a moment to figure out the right word, but their brow furrows, the silence lingering long enough that I dare to guess. “Pretending?”

“Convenience,” Campbell amends, then dismisses the comment with a shake of their head. “Pretending is more honest, I suppose. I’m a very good liar, but lying is still exhausting. Eventually, I get tired of it, and they catch a glimpse of what’s really underneath.”

I imagine that’s where it always ended.

“I’m not expecting anything.” I pause, trying to wrangle the thought into better shape. “Or, well, what I mean is…whoever you’ve had to pretend to be before, you don’t have to pretend with me. I don’t want you to fake it, Campbell.”

“In certain cases, I may not have a choice.” They keep their hand on mine, but Campbell’s gaze drifts out the tinted window to distant, blurred trees. “If it’s about work, and it gets close to you.”

I bite my lip. “To keep a client’s secrets?”

A subtle twitch of muscle in their jaw says otherwise. “To keep you safe. This is uncharted territory for me, Justine. What I do is very dangerous, but before you, I was the only one in danger. It didn’t matter.”

I get the sense something else lingers behind those words, some raw place inside Campbell screaming. Now isn’t the time to push. I already know what happened to a lot of people they were close to, and twisting a knife to carve out the truth isn’t going to leave either of us happy.

“Okay.” I settle the matter by gently hooking my thumb over theirs. “Then everything’s fine. I trust you.”

Surprise drives the hard edge of tension from Campbell’s face, followed by a faint laugh. “That’s going to take some getting used to.”

They swiftly divert the conversation, telling me the details about Montfort-l’Amaury. It’s only an hour outside Paris proper, easy enough to reach by car, but far enough away from the city to give me the privacy and quiet to paint. I hadn’t brought anything with me but a sketchbook, since hauling an easel and paints across an ocean was asking for trouble, but it’s fine. Paris has everything I need, and it would be worth trawling a dozen shops to find the perfect brushes and colors.

A fresh canvas here won’t have any old memories clinging to it.

When the car finally slows to a stop, my jaw drops. Campbell mentioned a villa, but this is a full-blown château. The architecture is early eighteenth century, and the property itself is surrounded by a massive swath of trees and dripping with ivy. Acres of wild grass stretch out back to a distant lake, and a bright band of wildflowers blossom along a stone path leading to the water. On the other side of old cobble, a more deliberately tended garden flourishes.

It’s incredible.

“Campbell, how much did this cost?” The question is breathless—I’m honestly mystified. “You don’t own this place, do you?”

I know how much they charge, but this place is worth a couple million on the low end. The amount of blood money it would take…

They shake their head. “No. Owning property leaves a fairly permanent paper trail. But an old colleague of mine does. We might see him if we stop by the summer house.”

Campbell has colleagues?

I’m trying to figure out if they mean a fellow assassin or something else entirely while following them into the house. It’s just as gorgeous inside as without, although a lot of careful remodeling has added modern amenities while safeguarding the charm. Floorboards made of warm red oak stretch from the foyer into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a perfect view of the lake and garden. The kitchen is a shrine of stainless steel and marble counters with enough room to feed twenty people.

Words. I’m capable of words. “This is all for us?”

Campbell pauses at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Of course. I prefer my privacy, and that extends to you.”

“How many bedrooms is this?” I ask, following them up. The banister is cool black iron under my fingertips—it might even be original to the place.

“Originally four, I believe, although Ulysse turned one into an office space and another into a gym because he rents it out to tourists.” Campbell points out the rooms as we walk down the hall, each one spacious and welcoming the sun. “But this one is for you.”

They pause at an old oak door on the left and turn the handle, opening it to let me in. I’m expecting a nice bed—followed by a very specific invitation—but what I find is a clean, bare room with a tarp spread across the floor. A pair of easels take up the center, with a line of blank canvases leaning against the far wall, and a wooden box full of oil paints on the floor, next to another box of brushes.

Oh.

“Campbell.” Their name catches tight in my throat, nearly lost to disbelief.

Gorgeous as it is, the rest of the house doesn’t matter anymore. Standing in this room, a sense of joy and relief suffuses me like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

They did this all for me.