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Sweeter Than Honey | Part Four: The Breaking Point

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 5.6k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

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Part Four: The Breaking Point

You were supposed to break him. But something’s cracking, and it might be you.

You weren’t expecting the elevator to stop one floor below the top.

Your old office, a narrow, windowless room buried several floors down, where most mid-level logistics staff worked, had always kept you just outside the ring of true power. The real operational power stayed above, closer to Spencer’s penthouse, and far out of reach for people like you.

You were close enough to see it. Never close enough to hold it.

Until today.

A sealed envelope arrived at your desk just after 8 a.m.

A short message, neatly written in Spencer’s exacting script.

Relocate to Level 16. Effective immediately. -S

The elevator doors opened to marble floors and silence.

You stepped into a different world. Muted lighting. Dark glass. Soft jazz that pulsed low and steady like a heartbeat. There was no buzz of comms. No chatter. No footsteps. Just presence. Weight. As if the walls themselves were watching.

Alex Tran was waiting by your new office.

He handed you a new clearance badge. Level 5, gold-accented. The kind given to no one.

“You’re moving up,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “Why?”

He tilted his head. “Logistics upgrade.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t think I belong here?”

“Oh, you belong.” His voice cooled. “It just makes you easier to watch.”

And then he walked away, leaving you in the hush of a place that felt more like a palace than an office.

Your new space was larger. Sleek. Private. Real wood furniture. No guards. A direct line to Spencer’s office across the hall. And just the floor below Spencer’s penthouse suite.

Already inside was your encrypted terminal, a new set of codes, and neatly placed at the center of your desk was the pen he’d given you weeks ago.

You hadn’t brought it up. Which meant someone else had.

You didn’t let yourself think too hard about that, and settled into your work.

That afternoon, Alex returned. No knock. No greeting. Just the cold silence of someone who already knew too much.

“No cameras on this floor,” he said.

You looked up. “Pardon?”

He stepped in, motioning loosely to the ceiling. “No surveillance. Not in these rooms. Not in his.”

Your fingers stilled over the keyboard.

“That’s... unusual.” you said.

Alex crossed to your desk and placed both hands on the polished surface.

“It’s intentional.”

You met his gaze. “Let me guess. For security?”

“For secrets.”

Your throat tightened, but your face stayed still.

“I’m guessing this isn’t really about logistics.”

“No,” he said. “This is about proximity.”

A pause. Then: “Let me be clear. You’re not here because you earned it.”

You stayed silent.

“You’re here because he wants to see you. Every day. Every night. He put you next to his kingdom, not inside it.”

You met his gaze.

“I’m here because Spencer wants me close. Because he trusts me.”

Alex’s expression didn’t shift.

“Or maybe,” Alex said, “he’s trying to figure out how deep the knife goes. He doesn’t make emotional decisions. Until now.”

He started to walk away, then stopped at the door.

“Just remember. The closer you are to the throne, the faster you burn when it falls.”

You didn’t have time to respond before he disappeared.

But that night, as you closed up your files and powered down your system, you found the velvet box resting beside your keyboard.

Like the other gifts you had received, you had no idea how it had gotten there but had no doubt who it was from.

There was no note. Just the box.

Inside lay a gold lapel pin, shaped like a queen from a chess set. Sleek. Sharp. Balanced between elegance and threat.

You turned it over once.

Twice.

And placed it in the drawer beside your badge.

You weren’t sure what it meant.

You weren’t sure if it was a warning.

Or a vow.

--------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, a simple message arrived through your encrypted inbox:

Pickup at Café Celeste. Noon. Package: T. Code exchange only. -S

Just another drop. Just another lie.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t hesitate.

You dressed sharp. Secured the gold bracelet to your wrist. Tied the black silk scarf at your throat. You went to secure the pin to your coat’s lapel, but you hesitated. The queen winked up at you from your drawer. Not yet.

The drawer slid closed, leaving the pin inside. You buttoned up your coat, and walked straight into the fire.

It should’ve been routine.

Just a dead-drop at a midtown café. Broad daylight. Pedestrian traffic. A simple package exchange between you and a courier known only as “T.” You’d done this dozens of times. Each time it was silent, clean, fast, and forgettable.

But the second you stepped out of the car, your instincts screamed.

Too still.

Too quiet.

Why was it always so quiet?

You were beginning to hate silence.

Then you saw the van.

It was a simple vehicle, not uncommon for the area. The kind used for deliveries, similar to those owned by a flower shop or bakery.

It pulled up fast across the street. It moved too fast. Pulled up too clean. No skid. No squeal.

And then you knew. You always knew.

It was Federal issue.

Your blood turned cold.

And you ran.

You didn’t run because you were undercover.

You ran because it was instinct.

You ran because you were alone. Because there was no backup. No plan. No message from Marlowe. No reason the FBI should have shown up tonight unless-

Unless someone had tipped them off.

You bolted through the café’s back kitchen, dodging steaming trays, hot plates, and creative curses that flew at you from the kitchen staff in several different languages. You felt the heat of pursuit before you heard the footsteps.

Outside, the alley was narrow and slick with rain. Too many blind corners. Too many mouths of darkness.

You ducked into a loading bay and yanked open the service elevator door Spencer had told you about weeks ago, " in case something ever goes sideways midtown. Don’t forget it."

You hadn’t.

The steel door groaned.

You slammed the gate shut and hit the switch.

As the platform jerked upward, you caught a glimpse of the figure rounding the corner.

Gun. Civilian clothes.

FBI.

They started pounding on the steel door below you. There was no way they could get it open while the elevator was in service. But that didn’t calm your anxiety.

When you reached the top you pulled the gate back violently. You kept running, sprinting across the roof and jumping to the next. You distinctly went against your FBI training, putting yourself at risk in order to throw off the man pursuing you.

When you were several blocks away, you finally allowed yourself to rest. You stopped in an alley. You were breathing hard. But not from the exertion.

It was the betrayal.

The op had been compromised.

The Bureau had moved on Spencer’s infrastructure. And they hadn't told you.

There were two explanations.

Either someone inside Spencer’s camp had tipped them off.

Or someone inside the Bureau had cut you out.

--------------------------------------------------------

Spencer didn’t ask you to explain when you returned to the office hours after the intended drop, drenched, your hair disheveled, and coat torn from the rooftop sprint.

He stood beside Alex at the conference table where they were unfolding blueprints, glancing up only once.

“The café,” he said. “What happened?”

“Feds,” you said. “Unmarked van.”

Spencer blinked once. His voice was colder than usual. “Was the drop made?”

“No.”

Alex’s eyes met yours. Unreadable.

“Where were you intercepted?” Alex asked. Spencer’s eyes flicked up quickly to look at your face. They lingered long enough to register something unspoken.

“After I’d already walked past the courier. They didn’t take me. I don’t think they had a positive ID.”

Spencer took a deep breath.

You felt the room shift.

He tapped his fingers on the table once, and started to leave the room. “Alex. We have work to do.”

So did you.

As soon as Spencer and Alex were gone you collapsed into your office, hands flying over the keyboard.

You needed to find something. Anything.

Some proof that would explain why the FBI started moving without you.

You need to keep your cover. You couldn’t risk Spencer finding out on his own. You flew through files, logs, manifests, trying to find anything.

You worked for hours, not being able to find anything. You had been left alone in the office, Spencer and Alex doing whatever they needed to do. You dread to even think.

It wasn’t until late that night you saw Spencer again. He stalked into his office with fire in his eyes.You watched him pull off his suit jacket and hang it up on the coat rack in his office. There were red spots blooming across his dress shirt.

There was a handgun in his waistband.

Alex knocked on your open door, drawing your gaze away from Spencer. He had three files in his hands and tossed them unceremoniously onto your desk.

“Spencer wants these employees pulled from next week’s escort. They won’t be making it.” Alex instructed.

You didn't ask questions.

You already knew the answers.

And unless you did something fast, the next blood on Spencer’s hands would be yours.

--------------------------------------------------------

You barely recognized the version of Spencer who stood at the head of the west conference room that night.

Blood on his collar. Eyes like iron.

He had summoned you and a handful of higher-ups to a meeting just four hours after Alex had handed you the employee files. You had never seen the two work so fast. It sent a chill up your spine.

You stood in the back of the room, trying not to draw any attention to yourself. You were staring at the wall opposite you. Projected onto that wall was a name, one you hadn't touched but knew all too well.

John Sutter.

Flagged months ago by the Bureau. Blacklisted. Marked unstable.

Someone had dropped him back into Spencer’s system.

Not you.

But by someone on the Bureau’s side.

They were moving without you.

They were testing him.

And they were using you to do it.

Spencer stood at the head of the conference table like a statue carved from control. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He didn’t move much at all. But his stillness crackled with something more dangerous than rage.

“There have been some… disruptions to our most recent operation.” Spencer addressed the room. “We had a little slip up today during a recent drop. Information has failed to be received. Vital information.”

You kept your face blank, trying not to flinch at Spencer’s reminder of your failure. You were all too aware of Alex’s eyes sweeping the room, watching everyone.

“Which led Alex to finding this. This name wasn’t on the shipment manifest yesterday,” Spencer said, pointing to the wall. “Now it is. And three containers are missing.”

The team stayed silent. Men who usually barked and paced now sat completely still, waiting for someone else to speak. No one did.

“And because of this, our clients aren’t getting their products. Payments are not being made. Product is not being moved. Our clients are not happy, which means I’m not happy.” Spencer looked down at the ship manifest placed on the table in front of him.

You stood with arms crossed, your heart beating in your throat.

“Someone changed the record,” Spencer said. His voice was soft. Terrifying. “There has been a breach. And one of you invited it.”

The air in the room went arctic.

Spencer pulled the handgun from his waistband, placing it on the table.

“Find the mole,” Spencer said. A command. A threat.

Then he walked out. Alex followed him out, not without sending a glance your way.

You didn’t wait.

You fled down the hall, your hands already burning with fury. You took tight, calculated steps toward the stairwell. The phone was weighing heavy in your coat pocket.

You locked yourself in the long forgotten back hallway near the freight elevator. You were dialing Marlowe before you even finished closing the door.

She picked up on the first ring.

“What the hell did you do, Marlowe?” you hissed. “Why is Sutter’s name on an Agnew manifest?”

A pause. A sip. You could hear it.

“We needed pressure,” she said. “This forces his hand.”

“You’re going to get someone killed.”

“It’s a risk we have to take.”

“You’re going to get me killed.”

“That’s the job, sweetheart. You knew what you were signing up for.”

You pressed your back to the wall, fingers white around the phone.

“He thinks there’s a leak, a mole. Alex won’t leave me alone. Spencer is taking an active hand in this investigation.”

“Good. That means you’re close.” Marlowe sounded happy.

You laughed, short and humorless. “You don’t get it. He’s not like the others.”

Another pause. Then: “No. You’re not like the others.”

You froze.

“You were built for this, Agent Dahlia,” she said. “But he’s turning you soft.”

The line went dead. You screamed in frustration and threw the phone at the wall. Unfortunately, it just bounced, not giving you the satisfaction of destroying something.

You knew you were going to be the first person they were going to look at. That manifest fell under your jurisdiction even though you had never laid your eyes on it before.

You needed to act fast. Faster than Spencer and Alex.

You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t afford to.

Instead, you planted evidence.

You spent the next 12 hours tracing server logs, sifting through message intercepts, sowing seeds of suspicion on a mid-level data analysis named Wes, a man too sloppy for his own good.

You found the weak link.

Wes was already on Spencer’s watch list, a junior employee who'd transferred in from Chicago three months ago.

Too friendly. Too chatty. Sloppy. Ambitious. Always watching, always eager. He’d once bragged about knowing how to “vanish” signals, reroute traffic.

It wasn’t hard to make him look guilty.

You rewrote just enough of his digital history to frame him. It only took two hours to forge just enough trail, just enough noise, to make it look like he’d been in the server logs.

You handed the data to Alex first thing in the morning.

“Are you sure?” Alex was almost glaring at you.

“She wouldn’t give it to us if she wasn’t, Alex.” Spencer snapped. “Come on.”

Spencer didn’t question a thing. He didn’t flinch when he ordered Wes to be dragged to the basement.

And just like that, Wes was gone.

You didn’t stay for the execution.

But you heard the shot.

And something inside you fractured.

Because you knew he hadn’t deserved it.

He was innocent.

But you had needed it.

You sat alone in your office, staring at the scarf Spencer had given you weeks ago. It was folded neatly in your drawer, placed there almost reverently.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted it to your face.

It still smelled faintly like cedar and smoke.

It choked you. You desperately needed some air.

You found yourself on the roof of the office building, overlooking the city. The traffic screamed below you like the roar of some distant war. The wind whipped around your face, stinging your cheeks.

That’s where Spencer found you, seated on the rooftop terrace, your breath fogging in the early hours, your eyes fighting to stay open.

“You should get some rest,” Spencer’s voice was like an electric shock.

You didn’t look at him. “If I close my eyes, I hear it.”

He sat beside you.

“You did what had to be done,” he murmured. “You protected the company.”

You couldn’t find your voice to reply.

“I used to be like you,” Spencer added. “The first time I ordered an execution, I vomited afterward. In my own office.”

You turned to him.

He wasn’t smiling.

“He was my best friend.” He continues the story. “First person I ever let get close after I built all this. He grew up with me. We came up through the ranks together. I let him handle security on a weapons drop.”

You already knew where this was going. But you didn’t want to interrupt, wanting to know more about Spencer. More about the man he was.

“He made a deal with the DEA. Turned over four warehouses. Two of my men died in the sweep. One of them was my cousin, Shayne.”

You didn’t speak. Just kept listening.

“He sold me out for thirty grand and a promise of immunity. After that I swore I’d never hesitate again. Alex and I found him, held trial, and I passed the verdict.” Spencer sighed. “I killed him myself.”

You looked at him, startled.

“I didn’t sleep for three nights afterwards,” he admitted. “And I actually threw up for two of them.”

You watched him, expression tight.

“And now?” you asked.

“I don’t throw up anymore.” He reassures you. “And then I stopped letting anyone close.”

His voice was quieter now. Raw.

“But then you came in. And you didn’t flinch. Not at the docks. Not in the basement. Not when I looked you in the eye and asked if you feared me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You should,” he added, softly.

“I still don’t.” You whispered.

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And whatever armor he wore thinned.

You didn’t plan to touch him. But your hand found his.

He didn’t pull away.

He held it like he needed it. Like he needed you.

The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the air felt warmer.

Or maybe that was just him.

“I want to trust you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your throat ached.

“Then do,” you whispered back. “Please.”

He studied you. His gaze moving slowly, reverently across your face, like he was trying to memorize the moment. The quiet. The shape of your restraint.

“If you ever lied to me…” he began.

But you shook your head before he could finish. “I’m not lying now.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Like he wanted to believe you.

Needed to.

“You are the only one I trust right now.”

The words knocked the breath from your lungs. You tried to speak. Failed.

“Why you?” he asked, voicing your exact thoughts. “Why not Alex? Why not the people I’ve known for years?”

You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know either.

Maybe because when you touched him he didn’t flinch. Maybe because you never asked for more than he offered. Or maybe because the lie had become so well worn, even you couldn’t see the seams anymore.

Spencer closer towards you. He was slow, deliberate, like a storm coming in on quiet feet.

“I’ve killed people for less than a shadow of doubt,” he warned.

You nodded. “I know.”

“So why do I trust you?”

He was now so close to you. His frame pressed against your side.

You whispered, “Because I’m still here.”

He said nothing.

You were close. So close. Closer than ever before.

His hand came up to touch your face. All thoughts evaporated from your brain.

He leaned in.

And kissed you.

Spencer kissed like a man who had spent his entire life being untouchable, and he had just realized he didn’t want to be. It started slow, uncertain. Like he was testing whether you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

You leaned in harder. Pressed your mouth against his with desperation you didn’t bother hiding. You curled your fingers in the collar of his coat and kissed him like the world might end in the next breath

And maybe it would.

He groaned softly, the sound spilling into your mouth as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You melted into it. Into him. Into the heat, the ache, the impossible, magnetic pull that had been building since the first time he looked at you like you were a mystery he wanted to solve.

You didn’t stop. Couldn't stop.

Not when he pulled you in so close. Not when his hands touched your body, setting your skin on fire. Not when his jacket hit the rooftop floor, followed by your defenses.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore. Not really. You were surrendering.

When he pulled you closer, you didn’t think about the mission. You didn’t think about Marlowe. Or Alex. Or the blood trail behind him.

You thought about the weight of his hand on your spine. You thought about the way he exhaled your name like it cost him something. You thought about the moment you stopped trying to destroy him and started trying to understand him.

You didn’t remember the walk from the rooftop to his bedroom.

You only remembered the way he looked at you, like you were dangerous and sacred all at once.

He peeled your coat from your shoulders with trembling fingers, like undressing you was something reverent. Like every layer he removed brought him closer to something he thought he couldn’t have.

You kissed his throat, his jaw, the scar near his shoulder. And when he laid you back on the bed, he paused.

“You can still say no,” he whispered.

You shook your head.

“I should,” you said. “But I won’t.”

What happened next wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t violent, either.

It was urgent.

His mouth found yours again. His hands mapped your body like a man cataloging something he never expected to keep. He kissed your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone. Left no space between you, just fire.

It wasn’t just heat.

It was grief.

For the lives you’d both lived to get here. For the lies you couldn’t un-say. For the way this wasn’t supposed to happen—and how you never wanted it to stop.

When he entered you, it wasn’t a possession. It was a confession.

He didn’t say your name.

But he said everything else with his touch.

And when he moved inside you, he didn’t ask for control.

He asked for something else.

Something fragile.

And you gave it to him.

Afterward, he didn’t speak.

He just reached for your hand, pulled it to his chest, and pressed your fingers to the place his heart beat hardest.

You lay there in the stillness, the sheets tangled, your body aching in the best way.

And for the first time since the mission began—you felt seen.

Wanted.

Not just as a tool. Not as a trap.

As a person.

“I want you to stay,” Spencer said suddenly, voice rough from overuse.

You turned your head toward him.

“You’re not like them,” he added. “You’re not like them.”

You wanted to say something back. Something true.

But if you opened your mouth, you’d tell him everything.

So instead, you kissed his shoulder.

And whispered, “Go to sleep.”

But you didn’t.

Not right away.

You watched him instead.

You memorized him. His face. The slope of his cheeks, the blush of his skin, and the pattern of his breathing.

And you wondered if this was the moment you’d finally stopped being the weapon.

And started becoming the collateral.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

Only the heat. The weight of his hand over your ribs. The steady drum of his heartbeat where your cheek rested against his chest.

For a few hours, the world outside didn’t exist.

No Bureau. No blood. No betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Just him.

Just Spencer.

The man you were supposed to break.

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You woke first.

Morning light spilled through the wall-length windows, painting the sheets in gold. Spencer still slept beside you, his back bare, and one arm draped loosely over your hip.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because you knew the second you got out of that bed, you wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

This wasn’t just chemistry. Wasn’t just strategy.

You had crossed the final line.

And you liked where you landed.

You reached out slowly, brushing your fingers against his jaw. He stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.

He looked peaceful like this.

Like the man he might’ve been in another life. Before the empire, before the ghosts, before the death.

And for the first time since this assignment began, you wanted to protect that version of him. Even if it meant destroying everything else.

You let yourself whisper it into the silence:

“I think I love you.”

Then you slid out of bed.

You dressed quietly, your movements fluid, practiced.

You didn’t expect him to say anything.

But as you reached for the door, his voice stopped you.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, startled.

Spencer sat up in bed, bare chest, tousled curls, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his voice.

“I have a meeting with my team,” you said quickly. “Just a quick logistics update.”

Spencer nodded once, slowly.

But his gaze lingered on you.

Like he knew.

Like he always knew.

You slipped out of his room quietly. The hallway was cold after the warmth of his room.

You walked with purpose, trying to keep your face blank, your heartbeat steady. But you knew you were glowing.

You could feel it. In your cheeks. In your chest. In the tremble of your fingers.

And that is exactly when you felt it. You weren’t alone in the hallway. There was that shiver. That sense.

Someone was watching.

You turned.

Alex.

Waiting.

Watching.

He was leaning against the wall just beyond the corridor’s bend. His arms crossed, jaw tight, gaze already locked on you before you turned the corner.

He looked at you like you were something rotting.

You froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just said, “You’re glowing.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alex pushed off the wall.

“Did you think no one would notice? No guards. No cameras. No check-ins.” He took a step towards you. “So easy to walk in. And yet you walk out… different.”

You said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

He took another step.

You stayed still, spine straight.

Alex studied your face, his expression cold. But beneath it, something else burned.

“Is it worth it?” he asked. “Whatever it is you think you’re feeling. Is it worth the risk?”

Your throat was dry.

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed.

“So it’s true.”

You didn’t confirm.

You didn’t have to.

“You’ve already chosen,” he said.

And then, quieter:

“God help both of you.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Two days passed.

Spencer didn’t disappear.

In fact, he was everywhere.

You saw him in the mornings. He was already up, already dressed, sleeves rolled as he studied the day’s numbers like the world depended on them. And for all you knew, they did.

You saw him late at night, still moving through the penthouse like he didn’t trust himself to sleep.

He didn’t touch you like he had before.

But his hand brushed your shoulder when he passed behind your chair. He poured you coffee before you even asked. He placed a folder on your desk, his fingers resting a moment too long before pulling away.

He didn’t speak of that night.

Not once.

But sometimes, when he thought you weren’t watching, his eyes would settle on your mouth. Your hands. The hollow of your throat.

Like he missed the taste of you.

Like he didn’t know how to say it.

And you didn’t push.

Because whatever this was, you didn’t have the words either.

You slept in his bed again.

Not because he asked.

But because you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

When you woke up, Spencer was already dressed, standing at the window with the city sprawling below him. You shifted in the sheets, the fabric rustling.

He turned. His gaze swept over you slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to keep looking.

“You’re awake,” he said, quiet.

You nodded. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sleep in. I have work to do.”

He walked over. Sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t kiss you. But he touched your wrist. Lightly. Reverently. Like it still mattered.

“Stay as long as you want,” he murmured.

Then he got up, and let the door click softly shut behind him.

The next night, you didn’t sleep. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he didn’t.

You lay beside him, listening to his breath change with every shift of the covers, every sigh he tried not to let escape.

Sometime near dawn, you turned to face him. His eyes opened instantly. He wasn’t asleep.

He reached for you, just briefly. A hand brushing your hip beneath the sheets.

Not pulling you in.

Just… checking.

You let him. You let him hold you.

And still, neither of you said anything.

Because if you did, then this would become real.

And if it became real, you both knew it could break you.

--------------------------------------------------------

You were staring at the city from your office window when your encrypted line lit up.

Marlowe.

You considered letting it ring.

But you didn’t.

You answered.

“Where the hell have you been, Agent Dahlia?” Marlowe snapped. “You missed the check-in. You haven’t been sending reports. We need to know what’s going on.”

“I’ve been handling it,” you hissed, pacing like an animal in a cage. “It’s not my fault I’ve been hung out to dry!”

Her voice sharpened. “We heard about the dead Wes kid. That wasn’t the plan.”

“No,” you admitted. “It wasn’t. But you forced my hand.”

A pause.

“Oh. You slept with him,” she said matter of factly, like she was reading the weather report.

You flushed even though Marlowe couldn't see you. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“But it did,” she said, unbothered. “Well done. I hadn’t realized you had gotten so close to Agnew.”

You didn’t respond.

A soft gasp crackled over the line, just sharp enough to gut you. And you knew in that moment that she knew.

“You really care about him.”

The silence on your end said enough.

“Agent,” she said, suddenly too calm, “you’re walking on a fine line. There is a difference between empathy and attachment. I need to know which side of the line you’re standing on.”

Your throat closed.

You looked down at your hands, they were trembling. The same hands that had touched him. Held him.

“I didn’t mean for this,” you whispered, starting to confess.

“No one ever does.” Marlowe’s voice twisted into something pitying. “I expect your next report tomorrow.”

You swallowed. “Wait, you’re not going to pull me? I am officially compromised. I’m a liability.”

Marlowe laughed loudly. It was cold. Cruel.

“No. I’m going to let you finish what you started.”

You blinked.

“Because he trusts you now. You’ll get the last piece we need.”

“And then what?”

She didn’t answer. Just hung up.

You stood in your silent office, surrounded by glass and shadow. Somewhere down the hall, Spencer’s footsteps echoed faintly as he moved through his empire.

The man who had built this world. The man you were supposed to burn.

You walked to the drawer.

Opened it.

The velvet box waited inside.

The chess queen gleamed under the soft desk light. Gold, delicate, sharp.

You picked it up. Held it like something sacred. Or cursed.

You’d worn everything else he’d given you. The bracelet. The scarf. Even the pen.

But not this.

This wasn’t a gift.

It was a crown.

A symbol of trust. Of belonging. Of power.

You stared at it for a long time.

And then, without ceremony, you pinned it to your lapel.

Not because you’d won.

But because you were done pretending you hadn't already chosen.

--------------------------------------------------------

You returned to the penthouse that night.

Spencer didn’t greet you with warmth. Not with hands. Not with a kiss.

But he didn’t ignore you.

He was waiting. Just standing by the bar, shirt sleeves rolled, nursing a glass of something dark.

When you stepped through the door, his eyes met yours instantly. He looked at you like someone staring at the sun too long, unsure if the beauty was worth the damage.

Soft. Searching.

Like he was still waiting to see if you'd stay.

You hovered near the entrance too long.

Then finally, you said, “Hi.”

A beat passed.

He set the glass down.

“You came back.”

You nodded once. “Of course I did.”

He stepped closer.

“Alex said you’ve been working late. He said you’ve been meeting off-hours.”

You froze. “He’s exaggerating. We’ve been coordinating audits. Supply chains. It’s not personal.”

“Isn’t it?”