The Assassin Wears White

Blair.

I packed the rifle away, the pieces clicking together with practiced silence. Below me, the city lights of New York glittered, oblivious. Another ghost for the morgue. Another paycheck in my account.

My burner phone buzzed once.

“Is it done?” The voice was distorted, belonging to the man I only knew as the Broker.

“Target eliminated,” I said, my voice flat. “Clean shot. No witnesses.”

“Payment is wired. Lay low, Viper.”

“Always do.”

I ended the call, shoving the phone into my tactical vest. The job was over. Now, the night began.

An hour later, I was no longer the Viper. I was Blair Renwick, florist, older sister, and currently, very late for a birthday party.

I pushed through the pulsing crowd of a rooftop club, the bass thumping in my chest. I spotted her immediately, a splash of bright color in a sea of black and gray. My sister, Sofia, was waving frantically from a table.

“You’re late!” she shouted over the music as I sat down.

“Sorry, work ran over,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Happy birthday, little sister.”

“You always say that. What kind of boring flower shop keeps you so late on a Friday?”

“The kind with very demanding customers,” I lied easily. “This place is incredible. Must have cost a fortune.”

“Don’t worry about it! It’s my twenty-first! We’re celebrating. First round is on me.” She slid a shot glass full of tequila toward me.

“I shouldn’t,” I started, but she gave me the puppy dog eyes that had worked on me since she was five.

“Please? For me?”

I sighed, picking up the glass. “Fine. But just one.”

“To my amazing sister,” Sofia toasted, clinking her glass against mine. “For paying for my classes and my rent and basically everything.”

“To you,” I corrected, “for putting up with me. Now drink up.”

We swallowed the tequila, and I winced at the burn. It had been a long time since I’d let my guard down enough to drink.

“So,” Sofia said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“The guy at the bar. Dark hair, tailored suit, looks like he owns the whole city. He’s been staring over here for ten minutes.”

My instincts kicked in. I scanned the bar discreetly. My eyes landed on him. He was handsome, I’d give him that, in a dangerous way. His suit was definitely expensive, and the watch on his wrist was probably worth more than my apartment. He met my gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“He looks like trouble,” I said, turning back to Sofia.

“The best kind of trouble,” she giggled. “Oh my god, he’s coming over. Act natural.”

I rolled my eyes. The man stopped at our table, his presence commanding the space around him.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the club’s noise. His eyes were fixed on me.

“Hi,” Sofia said, practically beaming.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from the bar,” he continued, still looking at me. “My name is Adrian.”

“Blair,” I said curtly. “And this is my sister, Sofia. It’s her birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Sofia,” Adrian said with a charming smile, but his attention snapped right back to me. “Blair. A beautiful name. Let me buy you a drink to celebrate.”

“We’re fine,” I said.

“Nonsense,” Sofia chirped, kicking me under the table. “We’d love one. I’ll have another tequila.”

Adrian signaled a waitress without even looking away from me. “Two more tequilas. And a bottle of your best champagne.”

The night blurred after that.

I remember arguing with Sofia. “We can’t accept champagne from a stranger.”

And Sofia’s reply. “Live a little, Blair! He’s hot!”

I remember Adrian leaning in close, his breath warm against my ear. “You have a fire in your eyes. I like it.”

I remember dancing. His hand was firm on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. For a woman trained to kill with a touch, I felt strangely safe.

“Another shot?” he’d asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Why not?” I’d heard myself say.

Big mistake.

The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the gap in heavy silk curtains, stabbing me directly in the eye.

My head throbbed with a vengeance. I groaned, rolling over. The bed was massive, the sheets so soft they felt like water against my skin.

This wasn’t my apartment.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the hangover. I sat bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The room was a masterpiece of masculine luxury. Dark wood, gray walls, a floor to ceiling window showing a panoramic view of Central Park. I was wearing a man's silk dress shirt, and nothing else.

“Okay, Blair. Don’t panic,” I whispered to myself, my voice hoarse. “Assess the situation.”

I scanned for my clothes. Nothing. My purse? Not here. My weapons? Definitely not here.

My gaze fell to my left hand, which felt oddly heavy. A diamond the size of a small planet sat on my ring finger, throwing rainbows of light onto the ceiling.

“What in the world is this?” I asked the empty room.

I tried to pull it off, but it was stuck fast. My eyes darted around the room again, searching for answers, and landed on the nightstand.

Next to a half empty glass of water was a folded piece of thick, official looking paper.

My blood ran cold.

With a shaking hand, I reached for it. It was heavy, embossed with the seal of the State of New York.

At the top, in elegant script, were two words that made my stomach drop to the floor.

Marriage Certificate.

“No,” I breathed. “No, no, no. This is a joke.”

But it wasn’t. It was all there in black and white. Names, date, witness signatures that were nothing but illegible scrawls.

My eyes found the names of the newlyweds.

Spouse A: Bella Esposito.

My alias. My civilian cover. The name on the fake driver’s license in my wallet. The name no one should know unless they’d run a deep background check.

I felt the air leave my lungs.

Then I read the other name.

Spouse B: Adrian Kessler.