Celeste:

  After Vincent’s toast, we didn’t linger.

  There was nothing else to say. Nothing more to prove.

  We walked out of that study like royalty leaving a war room — silent, dangerous, victorious. The halls of the Lysandre estate stretched long and quiet, our footsteps the only rhythm.

  But then—

  Ethan paused. Stopped walking.

  His eyes locked on something pinned to the corkboard calendar by the east corridor. A small red heart, thumbtacked on today’s date.

  I turned.

  Saw it.

  Felt my chest twist — not with sentiment.

  With recognition.

  “Oh my God,” I said softly, laughing under my breath.

  He looked at me.

  “Is that…?”

  “Our anniversary.”

  Ethan:

  It had slipped through the cracks. Between heists and bullets and USBs filled with power, we’d forgotten.

  Our marriage night.

  Exactly four years ago.

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  The rooftop.

  The kiss.

  The signatures that weren’t just legal — they were loaded weapons.

  Celeste stepped close, her fingers brushing the little red heart like it was made of glass.

  “You planned this?” I asked.

  She smirked.

  “I wanted to remember. Even if we didn’t survive to see it.”

  I kissed her — not with urgency.

  With certainty.

  And then I whispered, “Let’s get drunk.”

  Celeste:

  We left the estate without security.

  Just a car.

  Just us.

  It wasn’t about hiding — it was about being human for one goddamn night.

  Dinner was in a quiet place outside the city. Candlelight. Crimson wine. Pasta soaked in sauce darker than blood. Ethan laughed more than I’d heard him in weeks. I smiled until my face ached.

  We didn’t talk about the family.

  Didn’t talk about the USB.

  We talked about Prague. About that time I threatened a florist in Venice. About how I’d stolen his coat the first night we met because I knew it would fit me better.

  The wine flowed. So did the whiskey.

  And by the time we left, neither of us could walk straight.

  But we didn’t care.

  We were invincible.

  Ethan:

  Back at the estate, the world felt far away.

  The staff had gone to bed.

  The halls echoed with our laughter — slurred, soft, shameless.

  I pulled her into the elevator like we were teenagers again, her arms tangled around my neck, her perfume staining the air with lust and war.

  In our bedroom, she kicked off her heels and fell onto the bed with a thud.

  “You’re drunk,” I murmured, standing over her.

  She grinned up at me.

  “So are you.”

  I knelt over her.

  Not to pin.

  To worship.

  Celeste:

  He kissed me like I was holy.

  My thighs. My hips. The old scar near my rib from a bullet he removed himself.

  We didn’t rush.

  Didn’t fumble.

  We made love like we’d earned it — like every bruise, every bullet, every bloodstained kiss had been leading to this.

  His fingers were slow. His mouth deliberate. I let go in his hands, not because I was weak — because I trusted him more than I trusted gravity.

  I whispered things I’d never said.

  He said my name like it meant something.

  And when it was over — when we lay tangled in sweat and breath and silk sheets —

  He looked at me.

  Eyes glassy.

  Voice hoarse.

  Ethan:

  “If they come for us,” I said, “I’ll burn the world first.”

  She reached for my hand.

  Laced our fingers together.

  Soft. Intimate. Final.

  “Death will do us part,” she whispered.

  I kissed her knuckles.

  “No,” I said.

  “We’ll take death with us.”