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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

You fought not to be overwhelmed by his scent that filled the car—an intoxicating mix of something sharp, familiar, and impossible to ignore.
Every glance around only reminded you of him. Even out the window, you caught his reflection behind the wheel—an ironic image, if you weren’t so busy forcing yourself to hate him.

Then the car blasted to life with metal music so loud it made you freeze in your seat.
God, the worst soundtrack imaginable.

“Turn that shit off!” you barked, scrambling for the radio controls. But before your fingers could land, he swatted your hand away like you were a pesky fly.

“Oh, come on. I thought you liked music. Or are you one of those classic snobs?” He grinned, pretending to enjoy the noise shaking the car’s frame.

“Turn it off. Now.” You tugged his arm, trying to wrest control, and nearly sent the car careening off the road.

You froze, heart pounding, as he corrected the wheel with expert ease. Then, mercifully, he killed the music, leaving only the pounding of your own wild heartbeat.

“Harassing the driver isn’t the brightest idea,” he said, catching his breath and running a hand through his hair.

“You’re going to get us both killed,” you hissed, clutching the seatbelt like a lifeline.

He shot you a look that was half amusement, half challenge. “Have a little faith. I’m not looking to die with you. So—what’s it gonna be? Some soothing tunes, or do you want to talk?”

“Talk? About what? How you’re a reckless maniac behind the wheel?” Your voice shook, still rattled from the scare.

“I’m an expert driver. You’d know that if you actually knew me.”

“You’re so dull. Why would I care to know River fucking Cartwright?” You sang it like a taunt. “From a family of agents—guess it all came easy for you.”

He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Easier? You think so? Maybe you forgot I landed in Slough House. ‘Family of agents’? Only my grandfather was one. My parents? They left me.”

You hadn’t known that. Your tongue bit down hard to stop the apology clawing its way out. He was right—you were ignorant.

“Still,” you said, chin high, “you didn’t claw your way into MI5 by yourself. I sacrificed everything to get here. No handouts.”

“Glad to hear you earned your spot. I’d started thinking the Park was rotting with nepotism.” His gaze drifted back to the darkening road.
He wanted to say he knew how hard you’d worked. Remembered the way you pushed yourself every day. It was something he secretly admired.

“Sadly, it is,” you sighed. “So what happens when we reach the hotel? Don’t tell me we have to share a room.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist me at night?”

You scrunched your nose. “I’m more worried we’ll argue until I strangle you in your sleep.”

“Then I’ll sleep with one eye open.” He winked.
God, that stupid wink.

You glared, itching to slap him, but figured losing control of the car again wouldn’t help.

“This isn’t going to work, you know that, right?”

He sighed, hands steady on the wheel. “They paired us knowing we can’t stand each other. So it’s safe to say this stays professional. They want this done fast—not a damn vacation.”

“Still can’t believe Taverner signed off on this. Why?”

“Lamb and Taverner have their deals. Slough House has to stay in the loop on whatever this is.”

“If that’s true, she and Lamb could’ve played the married couple. The way they act, they’re practically one.”

Suddenly, he pulled the car over to the side and killed the engine.
Stopped. Out of nowhere.

You panicked. “What the fuck are you doing? If you’re expecting me to suck your dick, you can fuck right off!”

“Don’t get excited, dove. Though I’m flattered you can’t stop thinking about it.” He grinned, watching your outrage. Before you could answer, he pulled out a small box.
“We need to get into character before we get to the hotel.”

“Tell me you’re joking.” Your eyes locked onto the box like it was a ticking bomb.

“I know you want a divorce already, but for now, we wear these.” He flipped it open to reveal two golden wedding bands.

You covered your face, heart sinking. “Bad luck. I don’t want to get killed wearing fake rings.”

“You won’t. It’s just roleplay.”

“You call this fun?” You watched him slide the larger ring onto his finger, then hand the box to you.

“Hope it fits. Would be hilarious if you couldn’t get it off.” He gave you a wicked grin.
At least he didn’t offer to put it on your finger—that would’ve been mortifying.

You took the ring with suspicion, sliding it onto your finger like it was a shackle.

“Well done, Mrs. Lowden,” he said in a low voice, leaning in, elbow resting on the wheel. “Now, let’s rehearse. Who are we? How did we meet?”

You stumbled through his questions, feeling awkward and distracted.
It wasn’t going well. You couldn’t focus. You’d probably forget everything before you even reached the hotel—and blow your cover.

“I won’t let anyone grill you like this,” he said gently, noticing your anxiety. He placed a hand over your fists in your lap. “If you forget, just shut up. Let me fill the gaps.”

You nodded, stiff as a board. His touch stirred something wild inside you.

He caught the change. “You need to get used to me—not recoil. At least in public.”

You unclenched your hand to squeeze his. “I’ll try. Just need a second.”

“We’ve got all the time, darling.”

You shook your head. One more second locked in a car with him acting like this, and you’d lose it.
“Let’s go. Before someone thinks we’re doing something inappropriate.”

He laughed but obeyed, firing up the engine and heading toward your destination.

The town was warm and inviting.
You stumbled upon a wedding celebration—newlyweds waving goodbye as they piled into a decorated car for their honeymoon.

“About to enjoy their first night as man and wife,” River said, pausing the car to watch. “Could’ve been us.”

You shivered. What if it had been you, the bride, and River, the groom? How would your first night go?

“Where would our honeymoon be?” he asked.

You swallowed hard. “Anywhere.”

“Y/N, I’m asking for our cover. Mrs. Lowden—where would you want to go?”

“Shouldn’t we decide together? Like a real couple?” you challenged, avoiding his fierce gaze and instead watching the expensive watch gleam on his wrist.

“I’m letting you choose.”

“Fine. Scotland or something.”

“Scotland it is.” He smiled and drove on until you reached the hotel—an estate so grand it stole your breath.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Y/N Lowden,” River teased, parking as a porter appeared with a trolley for your luggage.

“Wait here,” he said softly, hopping out to chat with the porter, then opening your door and offering his hand.

You took it, matching his smile.

“Lovely, isn’t it? Worth every penny,” he said, nodding toward the sprawling estate.

“Definitely,” you replied, brisk and guarded.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you close.

“We’ll be alright,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

Lost in the storm of feelings swirling inside, you weren’t so sure.
But for now, you wrapped an arm around him and let him drag you into hell dressed as paradise.

Chapter Text

You let him lead you through the wide entrance hall like a general shepherding a reluctant recruit.
Crystal chandeliers spilled light across marble floors; the staff moved with the quiet efficiency of people trained to be invisible. For a moment, you almost believed the illusion—the luxury, the laughter tucked into the edges of the place, the suggestion that nothing bad could happen here. That illusion shattered the moment the porter pushed open the door to your suite.

The room wasn’t nearly as large as you’d hoped. Cream walls, dark wood, a view of manicured lawns rolling away toward a hedge maze. A single, massive bed.
Only one.

You shut the door behind you and leaned your forehead against it, dropping the mask you’d worn since arrival. The act was exhausting, and you knew you couldn’t keep it up forever.

River watched you. Not in his usual teasing, predatory way, but as though he were cataloguing you—something more complicated than an insult. He moved to the window, thumbs hooked in his jacket pockets, and for a moment his profile looked less like an enemy and more like an unfinished sentence you wanted to ignore.

“We should rehearse the details,” he said, practical as ever. “Names, background, little touches we can drop in front of anyone who asks.”

“You already made us ludicrously wealthy,” you pointed out, sauntering toward the minibar you had no intention of touching. “What else do you want? A yacht? A private island? Can we really act like we’re that wealthy?”

“Don’t joke,” he said, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Small things matter. Anniversary date, favourite holiday, Mrs. Lowden’s favourite aunt. Nobody wants an essay—just a few brushstrokes.”

You perched on the arm of the sofa, your ring clinking faintly as you folded your hands. “Fine. Anniversary: June seventeenth. Aunt Maud. We hate Brussels sprouts. Happy now?”

“It’ll do.” He flopped onto the bed and shoved a rumpled leaflet toward you. “Also, we need an argument plan. If anyone asks, we’re newly reconciled after a ridiculous fight about a charity auction.”

“Charity auction?” You almost laughed. “How domestic.”

“You’d be surprised what wealthy people fight about.” His eyes gleamed. “Also: practice a kiss. If we look convincing, people will assume real history. If we don’t, they’ll smell a cover.”

Your mouth snapped shut, heat flooding your cheeks. He’d said “kiss” like a mechanic describing a tool, clinical and detached. But your heart betrayed you, hammering against your ribs.

“Practice,” you repeated, springing to your feet. “If we have to act married, we don’t need to smooch in public. And frankly, I think you’re taking advantage of this situation.”

He rose slowly, walking toward you as if approaching a line he didn’t care whether you crossed. A few years ago, you would’ve sold your soul for a moment like this—sharing a room with River Cartwright, playing his wife, even if only undercover. To test how he kissed. How he tasted.

River’s gaze dropped to the ring on your finger, then lifted back to your eyes.

“If you’re not comfortable near me, this will never work,” he murmured in a soothing tone. “And you don’t want this mission to fail, do you?”

You tried to answer, but your lips felt glued shut. Your teeth clenched until your jaw ached.

“Do I disgust you so much?” he teased, but his voice was soft enough to melt your core. Sin. He was sin incarnate—the personification of temptation.
But you were stronger now. Trained to endure every kind of torture.
And kissing him wouldn’t be so bad, would it? You only had to pretend you were that silly trainee again—the girl who once lusted after him without restraint.

He leaned closer, eyes alight, daring you to shove him away.

Then a sharp knock rattled the door.

You jolted back while River stiffened, crossing the room in two strides and cracking the door an inch.

A waiter stood in the hall, clipboard in hand, smile fixed like wax. “Mr. and Mrs. Lowden? Housekeeping requests permission to—” His gaze flicked to the rings, then to River, curiosity softening his professional mask. “Will you be needing anything this evening?”

River gave him a practiced half-smile. “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

The man glanced past River at you. You uncrossed your arms and forced a charming smile, nodding once. He retreated.

River nearly slammed the door in his face.

“At least there’s no lovely maid for you to ravish,” you mocked, clawing yourself back from humiliation. “Disappointed, Cartwright?”

“He looked at you like he wanted to ravish you,” River hissed, emphasizing the you. “I thought we were practising marriage, not flirting with the staff.”

“Don’t push your luck. I’m still deciding whether to let you sleep in this room at all. I’d worry for the poor maids.”

“You’d be jealous,” he shot back. “That’s why you’ll keep an eye on me—even at night.”

“Keep dreaming. I’m going to scout this place so we don’t look like idiots when our targets arrive.”

He shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the bed. “I’m coming with you. Overprotective husband, remember? I’m not letting you out of my sight, Mrs. Lowden.”

The phrase almost made you sigh like some lovesick girl. You swallowed it down. Ignoring the arm he offered, you burst out of the room, already mapping the corridors in your head.

“The lift’s that way,” he said, catching your arm before you could barrel down the stairs.

The thought of being trapped in a lift with River Cartwright, even for a few moments, made your skin crawl. You yanked free and chose the stairs.

The dining room was busy with guests. You lingered, studying the people while pretending to eat, even attempting small talk. River stayed close—a shadow at your back, stepping in whenever your act faltered.

But the effort wore you thin. You felt feverish, desperate for privacy.

This time, River convinced you to take the lift. You almost leaned against his shoulder for support, but stopped yourself just short.

He wrapped an arm around you anyway. You didn’t fight it.

“You’ll adapt,” he murmured, steadying you all the way back to the suite. The sight of the single bed didn’t seem so terrifying anymore—not when all you wanted was to collapse onto it.

You dug through your bag, fled into the bathroom, and changed into the ugliest pyjamas you owned. A flimsy shield.

When you emerged, River was already in a casual shirt and drawstring trousers—casual but infuriatingly attractive. He was also snooping in your bag. Your underwear sat exposed at the top.

You flushed scarlet.

“Good,” he said, clearing his throat as he straightened, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous hand. “So… let’s sleep.”

“You’re on the floor.” It came out sharper than you intended, the fear behind it too raw to disguise.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Don’t be cruel, wifey. You’ll freeze at night.”

“I snore so loud you’ll run for the hallway. Do you really think I can fall asleep next to you?”

“You’ll need rest. Tomorrow’s harder. We can’t afford a poor act in front of the targets. We’ll have to be exceptional. They have to see a married couple—so we give them one.”

Your stomach twisted. “You mean… even now? Even off-stage?”

He held your gaze for a long moment, then chuckled, palms up in surrender. “No. Now we just sleep. Peacefully. Deal?”

You nodded, dismissive, and claimed the side of the bed nearest the window. You lay stiffly, back to him, trying not to react when the mattress dipped with his weight. His sigh filled the silence. Even without touching, you felt his heat, smelled the sharp cologne that clung to him.

He suggested reviewing what you knew about your targets—a welcome distraction. You played along, trading facts like cards, until the rhythm of it carried you under.

Sleep claimed you before you realized it.

Chapter Text

It was so comfortable you almost wanted to sleep like that forever. The bed held you like a cocoon; a steady, foreign heartbeat thumped in your ear. Your biological clock nudged you at first light, but you didn’t want to move—not yet.

Then reality slapped you awake.

The warm cushion beneath your head turned out to be a chest. The thumping was not yours. You weren’t alone.

Panic pushed you upright before your brain had caught up. An arm tightened around you, half-hold, half-restraint.

River stared at you, pupils dilated. “It’s all right. You weren’t doing anything wrong,” he said, voice soft.

Wrong. Your lungs clawed for air; your body wanted to bolt for the bathroom, for any dark corner where no one could see you undone. You were mortified—exposed. For a second you tasted the most private thing you owned on the edge of being revealed. You hardly remembered anything from the night beyond the blanket fight.

River sat up. “Y/N, breathe with me.” He inhaled slowly, deliberately. You mirrored him clumsily until your breathing matched and your hands stopped shaking.

“This can’t happen out there,” he warned, rubbing his fingers through his hair. “If our targets suspect anything—” He didn’t finish.

The flicker of sadness in his face stabbed tighter than your embarrassment. You stammered, grateful for even a flimsy excuse. “I can do this. I just—don’t spring that on me. And next time, elbow me. Push me back to my side.”

He softened into a smile that, maddeningly, made your chest ache. “Fine. I’ll elbow you. I’m glad you found my chest sufficiently comfortable.” He ducked his head, half-mocking, half-pleased.

You forced a laugh. He hadn’t slept well; he looked exhausted. “You can take a nap. I’ll get ready.”

River swung his legs over the side of the bed. The mattress felt like a wave crushing against you. “No time. They land at Heathrow this morning. We need to be downstairs for breakfast.”

So the routine began: quick shower, quick dress, the practiced domesticity of spies. You pulled on the first dress you found—morning casual that masked nothing and everything. River wore suit trousers and a white shirt that fit him as if it had been stitched to his back.

You felt your mouth go dry.

“Ready, Mrs. Lowden?” he offered his arm. This time you took it. You folded your smile into place and let it sit on your face.

“Ready, Mr. Lowden.” You heard the formality and pulled at it like an ill-fitting collar.

He cocked an eyebrow. “We won’t need to be so formal all day, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure, River--Jack.” You cut your eyes away, furious at yourself for the slip.

“Keep tormenting me,” he said, warm amusement in his tone. “Or invent a pet name, dove.”

“Jack the Ripper,” you snapped. “So—how do we introduce ourselves to our friends?”

You muttered the rest under your breath as you descended. You enjoyed a rich breakfast. Then you spotted your targets in the reception. Your stomach tightened. Coffee soured on your tongue.

River’s gaze met yours and steadied you like an anchor.

---

“Would you buy a place like this?” he asked as you strolled the terrace. “I thought you said you wanted a house in the country.”

He kept his hand at the small of your back. The gesture was exactly the sort of domestic intimacy that widened the space between cover and truth. It made your pulse go traitorously fast.

You let your hand rest on his chest; his heart was steady under your palm. Up close, his cooing, husbandly tone should have been ridiculous. Instead, it pulled at something brittle in you. “Can we afford something like this, darling?”

“If my investments goes right, we can afford two or three of them.” He smiled—a private, confident thing. You rested your forehead against his for a ridiculous second and felt the grin catch at the edges of your resistance.

A man’s voice with a thick foreign accent interrupted. “Excuse me, sir—are you a businessman?” He was crisp, polite, calculating.

River’s practiced charm slid on like a glove. “I like to think so.” He offered his hand. “Jack Lowden. This is my wife, Y/N.”

The man bowed slightly, assessing. “Beautiful woman. Lucky man. Karim Nasr—I arrived a few hours ago.”

“We only got in yesterday. Are you staying long?” you asked, matching the formal smile.

“Couple of days. Depends on how my friends enjoy the place. I hear you’re looking at properties. I can help.”

“An estate agent?” River feigned naive curiosity.

“Sort of. I deal in luxury.” His eyes lingered. “Perhaps you’ll dine with us tonight?”

“We’ll meet in the dining room?” you asked, heart beating fast.

“No—private hall. A waiter will take you at seven.” Nasr’s voice was smooth. 

The conversation dwindled; Karim melted back into his party. River escorted you to the lift.

The maid had been in—your room looked tidier for it—and the neatness made your stomach flip. Would anyone read anything into the sheets? Any sign of passion, of nerves?

River pinged Lamb and Taverner with a short update. He smirked at you when he hung up. “You did well. You stunned Nasr. The other two will fall into line.”

You almost missed the ghost of his touch—the way he had moved you close to whisper a line, the practiced tenderness used to sell the fiction. You’d never had anyone look so intent on making you smile. For a worrying, traitorous beat, you wondered what it would be like if it weren’t acting.

“Are you sure they don’t suspect us?” you asked, lowering your voice so only he could hear the tremor.

“Nasr was distracted by you” he said. “And talk money to him and he forgets to be careful. We get acquainted. We find a way in. Agreed?”

“They keep those files in their case. They’ll sleep with one eye open.” You couldn’t hide the worry.

“Not as guarded as I’d guard my wife.” He patted your shoulder with an affectionate mock-domineer. “We’ll sort it.”

“Nap or stroll?” he asked.

“A nap. My brain needs a break.”

“Bed’s yours,” he said, but there was something in his tone—an edge—that stopped you from relaxing. “I’ll map the staff routes.”

"You're not tired at all?"

"I am. But I want to sort through the details about our targets. We can't fail tonight".

"Oh, come on, honey." you said playfully. "I can't risk you falling asleep over that important dinner. Come to bed".

“You asking as Y/N or as Mrs. Lowden?” he teased, brow lifted.

“Both,” you muttered. “You need to sleep. I won’t let you ruin this mission.”

“Do I look that bad?” He pulled a face.

“You look like someone who didn’t sleep because couldn't get a blanket,” you said.

“Maybe I watched over you,” he said, and there it was—the line that sounded like more. Your jaw clenched. You did not need the ache in your chest to deepen.

“You didn’t have to, creep” you said, too sharp.

“Fine. Let me sleep. It’s pointless arguing with you.” He set a small alarm and rolled onto his side, his back to you.

Sleep came grudgingly, threaded with images of his hand at your waist and the knowledge that tonight, when meeting your targets, you would have to be a convincing wife—and a cleaner, smarter thief.

---

The alarm went off far too soon.
Your groan tangled with River’s, the sound reminding you—unwelcome but undeniable—that you’d shared a bed again. That fact alone was enough to rip you from sleep.

“Back to work,” you muttered, escaping the warmth and clinging to routine.

A brisk stroll through the grounds with River followed, voices kept low, the two of you whispering strategy like conspirators.

The crisp air cleared your head, though every accidental brush of his hand against yours muddied it again.

Then it was time. Dinner loomed.

You dressed separately, as if the distance might help you breathe.

The red dress slid over your skin like a second, bolder one. Red lipstick, hair styled to perfection, a mist of perfume lingering in the air. It felt less like preparation for a mission, more like walking into a gala where the prize was danger itself.

River emerged in his best suit—sleek black, polished shoes that shone under the lamplight. He was fastening an expensive watch around his wrist when the scent of his cologne caught you, heady and distracting.

His reaction to you was immediate. He froze, eyes sweeping over you once, twice, as if disbelief required confirmation.

“You look…” His voice failed, then returned with less control than usual. “Ravishing.”

Your lips curved. “Good. They’re supposed to want to ravish me.” You leaned casually on the doorframe, angling yourself so he could see exactly what the dress did to your figure.

His jaw tightened. “In their dreams only.” He stepped closer, voice lower now, each word deliberate. “You’re the personification of distraction.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach at the way his eyes lingered—not just on the dress, but on you.

River reached for your hand with surprising care. He lifted it slowly, deliberately, and brushed his lips against your knuckles. His mouth was warm, softer than it had any right to be.

The kiss lasted just a beat too long to be polite, and when his eyes flicked up to meet yours, they were dark with something that had nothing to do with the mission.

“Any man would be lucky to call such a stunning woman his wife. For one night I’m the luckiest,” he said, voice low and husky.

The words landed harder than you expected. You dropped your gaze, in vain trying to hide how you were affected.

River noticed and cleared his throat, offering his arm. “We’ll be all right,” he said.

At seven, a waiter appeared on the dot and led you through to a reserved, low-lit dining hall that turned candlelight into shadows and gave the room a slightly gothic edge.

The three men wore expensive suits and watched with the bored confidence of men used to being noticed.

Nasr introduced his companions—less friendly, more guarded—and you tracked their hands to the leather cases by their chairs, wondering which one held the files you’d come to steal and how River planned to take them.

River eased you into your chair and settled into the one beside you, his presence close and constant.

The conversation orbited money and property, but the men kept swinging flirtatious glances in your direction. Flattery alone wouldn’t buy the files. If it came down to it, you were prepared to take yourself into their rooms—close enough to reach what you needed and leave before anyone noticed. You measured the risk with a cold, efficient calm.

River seemed to read you. He leaned back, playing the possessive husband: arm along the chair’s back, a quiet reminder of ownership.

You pecked his stubbled cheek—your lipstick left a red smudge that should have been charming if your intestines weren’t twisted with anxiety.

That little mark didn’t soothe him. You felt the heat rising, the argument you were both restraining ready to snap.

“You’re right to be jealous,” Nasr said with a half-smile, lifting his glass in a toast. “If anyone could steal her away, someone would try. What a prize.”

“I know,” River replied, eyes slow and predatory as they swept you. “I take care of what’s mine. She inspires me to do more—buy her the whole world, if she wished.”

“Treating her like a queen,” Nasr said enviously.

River steered the talk back to business. “With your connections and mine, there’s potential. Mutually beneficial.”

“We hope so, friend,” the others murmured, and after more guarded small talk they all admitted tiredness and rose.

You shook hands politely; River’s hand found your bottom in a public, casual pat that made the three men laugh, but startled you.

You forced a smile and bit back the swift, furious plan you’d been forming—he didn’t need to ruin the act now.

When you were alone, you rounded on him in the corridor. “Lucky for you I had to play along. If you’d done that any other time... you'd be lacking your right hand now” you hissed into his ear.

He pulled you closer with a laugh and an arm around your waist as you walked. “You asked for it. Your husband won’t stand idle while others flirt.”

“While he flirts with pretty maids and bartenders, right?” you snapped. “I was trying to get near their files, not sleep with them. If I could get invited to their rooms, I’d steal the files, not throw myself at them.”

“And how would you get in? Knock them out? What if they take advantage before you find the files? Are you ready to sell yourself for the mission?” His voice sharpened, not quite cruel, but testing.

“I can handle it. Without letting them touch me,” you replied. He almost shoved you into the suite. When he locked the door, he looked like a predator who’d cornered his prey.

“So what’s the plan? You want to be the one invited to their rooms?” His words were businesslike, but his eyes never left your lips. He reached up, brushing at a smudged corner of lipstick; his fingers trembled with something that wasn’t entirely professional.

Your eyes dropped to the mark your kiss had left on his cheek—proof you had claimed him, even if only in paint.

If only it could be true.

“If you like the lipstick so much, I can lend you mine,” you tried to joke, but the sound was thin.

“It’s easy for you,” he murmured, distracted, the scent of him intoxicating. “A mere red dress, some red lipstick—every man falls at your feet. Is that how you did it? Taverner’s golden agent?”

The barb stung. You stepped back, but the room shrank around you—his body, the nightstand, the lamp—until you were pressed between him and the furniture. “Do you think I sell myself to criminals? You doubt my skills?”

“I didn’t mean to offend.” He looked suddenly vulnerable, and his admission cut through your anger. “I know you’re exceptional. It’s just—your look melts hearts. I thought—” He broke off, eyes frank and earnest in a way that would have stopped any other retort cold.

He gave you a compliment, clumsy and real. No one had called you exceptional like that before.

Anyway, nobody whose opinion mattered to you.

The silence between you thickened, weighted with everything neither of you dared say aloud. His hand was still close to your face, fingertips brushing the faint trace of lipstick as though it were evidence of something forbidden.

You should have pushed him away. You should have reminded him of the mission, of boundaries, of professionalism. But instead you stood there, your pulse hammering in your throat, betraying you.

River leaned in, just enough that his breath grazed your temple, warm and unsteady. “You don’t know what it does to me,” he murmured, “watching them look at you like that. Knowing they want you. Knowing I can’t—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, but his eyes gave him away.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up—you tilted your chin, just slightly, daring him closer. Dangerous, reckless. Exactly what you weren’t supposed to do.

His hand slid from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there as if testing how far you’d let him go. The heat of his palm made your skin prickle.

“River…” your voice was softer than you intended, more plea than warning.

“If you were mine for real,” he whispered, gaze flicking to your lips, “I’d never let you walk into a room like that. Not without reminding you first who you belong to.”

The words hit you like a spark on dry tinder—half fury, half desire. Every inch of you wanted to slap him. Every inch of you wanted to drag him down into a kiss so fierce it would burn both of you alive.

You grabbed his wrist, meaning to shove him off. Instead, you held him there against your throat, pulse racing under his fingers. His eyes darkened, and the air between you turned molten.

One wrong move, and the mission would be lost.

One wrong move, and you’d be his.

Chapter Text

You could feel the silence between you like a held breath. River’s fingers were still warm against the hollow of your throat; his eyes were hazed with something that had little to do with plans or professionalism. You had every excuse to push him away—remind him of duties, of Lamb and Taverner, of the fact that two agents pretending to be married was a fragile lie that could snap at the slightest betrayed touch.

Instead you focused on what the mission needed. If you could see their rooms, mark doors and staff routes, learn how the files were handled at night, you could stop worrying and start acting.

“Don’t make me wait until morning to prove you’re useful,” you said, voice flat and slightly amused.

River’s mouth tilted. “Is that a demand or a suggestion, Mrs. Lowden?”

“Both. Scout their suites tonight. Quietly. We find the files, or we find out how locked they are. Either way, we’ll have options.”

“All right. I want to enjoy this dress a little longer anyway.” His eyes traveled down your body. “Post-dinner stroll?” He offered his arm and you linked yours.

The halls were quiet; you walked like any ordinary couple, one that belonged here. The men’s suites occupied a different wing, more guarded. Voices droned behind their doors in Arabic—lively, private, impenetrable.

“If we had sleeping gas, we could break in now,” you whispered in River’s ear.

“It’d trip everything. If we can take something without them noticing, that’s best.” His grip on your waist tightened and pulled you back from the edge of fantasy.

It felt unfair. This mission could end tonight. But did you want it to end?

River’s voice dragged you out of your thoughts. “Can I?”

“What?” you asked, confused.

He pointed at the hairpin in your bun. “I’ve been dying to pull it out all evening.”

He looked like a tormented child and something indulgent loosened in you. You nodded. He reached slowly, careful and delicate, as if handling glass. When he plucked the pin free, your curls unspooled and fell over your shoulder. He looked as astonished as if you’d performed some private magic.

It was unbearably cute. For a dangerous second you wanted to kiss him. You forced yourself to stand still and let him lead—if he wanted a kiss, you wouldn’t refuse. If only he wanted it too.

An elderly couple passed and murmured how lovely you made a pair. The spell broke; River steered you back toward your room.

“Do you want to—unwrap this dress?” you joked, which came out horribly wrong.

His scandalised look flared and you sank into deeper embarrassment.

“If you want me to,” he said before guilt could settle in.

You stood rigid as he moved closer. Your eyes dropped; you watched the line of his suit, the way it clung, and for a traitorous moment you imagined peeling it away. You were suddenly back in the years you’d tried to bury—the years you’d obsessed over him for mere looks and small mercies.

You barely noticed his fingers at your back, the pull of the zipper, the cool slide as fabric eased. You wrapped your arms around yourself, muttering a thanks, and fled into the bathroom.

You took too long in there—cold water did nothing to drown the heat. If your partner had been anyone else, it would have been simpler. No buried history. No bleeding, complicated hunger that you masked with hatred. The truth, the one you kept locked and soothed with bile, was that you still wanted River Cartwright. You never stopped craving him. Hatred was a good mask for heartbreak.

When you left the bathroom he had changed into ordinary pyjamas. Cinderella’s unforgettable night had ended. You slid into your own ugly pyjamas with hands that trembled. Getting into the bed felt like stepping off a cliff.

“We have a deal,” you said, stern. “You kick me awake if I touch you again.”

“What if I don’t mind?” he teased. “You were a warm blanket.”

Your cheeks burned. “Tomorrow we get those damned files,” you said, forcing resolve into your voice.

“Then let’s enjoy this while we can.” He sounded casual but there was an edge to it you didn’t want to parse.

“We probably won’t get another chance to be forced to share a bed and wear unholy wedding bands,” he added, trying for levity. You ignored him.

You slid under the covers as he joined you, already emotionally drained.

“I hate them for what they did to us—sending us on this mission,” you confessed, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, taking the blame as if it would help.

“It’s not your fault. I don’t hate you, River. Even if I should. You’re decent. You should be at the Park with half the idiots there.”

“Why should you?” He sounded small in a way that made you wince.

“Huh?” You’d lost the thread.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he whispered, conflicted.

You watched his profile against the dim light.

“That’s what our bosses want—fear of Slough House. But what do you want? Do you hate us so much?”

“I don’t hate you,” you said, and it was honest, rawer than you meant. “I hate this—this entire situation. I hate how it pulls at things I thought I’d buried.”

River exhaled softly, the sound of someone trying to rearrange an inconvenient truth. “Me too,” he admitted.

For a while you lay in the dark, the bad kind of quiet that wasn’t empty but full of things neither of you would say aloud. Outside, the estate slept. Inside, two people who’d practiced pretending for years lay inches apart, more vulnerable now than they had any right to be.

Chapter Text

All of it felt like a beautiful, fragile dream — except you remembered one clear thing: River had been in it.
When you woke and stretched, the first light filtering through the curtains found him still asleep, peaceful and unnervingly vulnerable. Your hand was still tucked in his, a relic of the pillow talk that had eased you both to sleep. He had suggested talking about things you liked; his fingers had found yours under the blanket. It had felt, briefly, like another life — easier, softer.

River was gorgeous even in sleep. The wicked part of you wanted to play a prank; the softer part only wanted to stare. What if you could wake like this every morning? Was that asking too much?

“You stare at me in my sleep, and I’m the one taking advantage?” His voice made you jump; he was awake and grinning, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I wasn’t staring,” you lied, ripping your hand away and hugging your knees to your chest.

“At least you liked the view?” He stretched, huge and languid, and the sight of him should have been an irritant. Instead it lodged under your skin like a spark.

“Glad you slept well,” you said, hunting for clothes. “If you’re in such a good mood, help me get ready.”

“Good morning to you too, Y/N,” he yawned. “So — glorious day?”

“Yes, if you help. Otherwise I’ll steal those files myself.” You met his eyes, challenging.

He raised a brow, amused. “And how do you plan to do that?”

He found out an hour later and felt a spike of begrudging admiration — and annoyance.

The men had invited you to taste a liquor they called nectar-of-the-gods. In any ordinary life you’d have refused. Tonight, it was an opening.

If only River hadn’t insisted on playing guardian.

He hadn’t been invited. That was obvious. The three men expected only the pretty trophy-wife and the courtesy of a toast. They did not expect a husband hovering at the edge of the room. They did not expect you to be a trained operative with a plan.

“You can’t let me play my part just so you can be the hero,” you hissed down the hall, not bothering to wait until you were alone.

“I thought we’d do this together,” he argued. “I’m not letting you walk into a trap.”

“And what would you do? Tie me to the headboard?” You could have slapped him for the temptation of the joke, but instead you kept walking.

His eyes caught something in your tone and lit. “Don’t tempt me.” The threat was playful; the look that accompanied it was not.

The invitation had hung unanswered. You’d hoped you could slip in, get close to the files, make them drunk enough to sleep — easy, surgical. Real life offered less courtesy. Most likely they wanted a private taste of the pretty wife their new friend had boasted about.

“We’re running out of time,” you said. “You saw those black cars waiting in the lot. If we don’t act, we’re screwed.”

“Patience,” he said, plucking at his collar like a man too tired for posturing. He sank into a nearby chair, suddenly exhausted.

“You don’t care,” you snapped.

If he’d been standing, you would have slapped his face or hit his chest.

Instead you climbed onto his lap and pinned him to the chair, surprising him into silence. At least you had his full attention now.

You gripped the collar of his shirt hard and stared down at him. “Listen to me. I will not let you jeopardise this mission. I will not go home with failure on my back. I will not end up in Slough House.”

It took a moment for the words to land. He blinked, then went smug. “I get it, dove. A little patience. We can’t start a war, can we?”

Your grip tightened. “Call me dove one more time—”

“What’s going on there?” A voice cut through the hall.

From rage to panic in the blink of an eye.

The color drained from River’s face in an instant; panic sharpened his features. He was terrifyingly handsome with fear in his eyes.

Without thinking, you leaned forward and sealed your mouth to his.

Footsteps halted and then retreated. The intruder muttered an embarrassed “Whoops, sorry” and fled.

When the corridor fell silent again you peeled away, breathless, staring at his parted lips and refusing to meet his burning gaze.

Shame flushed you down to your bones — and beneath it, a fierce, feral something else.

“Cartwright...” you began, an apology or explanation dying on your tongue.

He silenced you by grabbing the back of your head and pulling you back into him.

This kiss was not gentle.

It was greedy, urgent—the kind of desperate thing two people trapped in a lie might do when the lie thins into truth. Limbs tangled, the chair creaked under the weight of the movement and indignity, and for a few seconds the world narrowed to the taste of him.

He let you go when you began to choke, but his grip on your hair remained—possessive, fierce. When he opened his eyes they were almost black. Hunger had replaced the earlier mischief.

“Y/N…” he breathed, and there was a plea in the name.

Something in you reached back. You cupped his face, the movement steadier than you felt, and returned the kiss—this time softer, threaded with something like mercy and decision rather than only want.

When you broke apart, the two of you sat very still, the echo of the contact humming between you like a live wire. For a long beat neither of you spoke. Outside the doors people mingled and laughed as if everything were ordinary. Inside, you both knew everything had shifted.

“Later,” River said finally, voice hoarse. “We get the files tonight. After that—” He didn’t finish, but his eyes said more than the words.

You slid off his lap and let the cool air of the hallway take the heat from your skin. Your head was clear — sharper, actually — as if the kiss had stripped away some indecision rather than created more.

“Tonight,” you agreed. “No more mistakes.”

He gave you a long look, something like gratitude and something like warning folded into one. “No mistakes,” he echoed.

You moved apart and the plan settled into both of you like a second skin. The mission came first. Always. But now the missions were threaded with the dangerous, delicious knowledge that some lines between you had already been crossed.