Laying the Trap
Aaliyah
Aaliyah woke to emptiness. The space beside her was cold, the lingering warmth of Cruz’s body already long faded. She stretched her arm across the mattress, fingers grazing the vacant sheets, feeling the hollowness of the morning settle deep in her bones. She had always hated waking up alone. But waking up without Cruz? That was something else entirely.
For a long moment, she didn’t move. She just stared up at the high ceiling, watching the shifting patterns of sunlight that filtered through the curtains. The villa was too quiet, too still. It made her skin itch.
With a sigh, she finally pushed herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. That was when she saw it—the neatly folded piece of paper resting on the nightstand. Cruz’s handwriting, small and precise.
Back soon. Be good. You got this.
Aaliyah exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she ran her fingertips over the note. So Cruz. No unnecessary words, no drawn-out reassurances. Just this—short, to the point, and yet somehow still managing to hold everything Aaliyah needed to hear.
But it wasn’t enough. Because no matter how many times Cruz left first, no matter how many times Aaliyah reminded herself that this was part of the plan, that Cruz would never leave her behind—none of it made the loneliness any easier to bear.
The villa felt cavernous without her.
Aaliyah pulled one of Cruz’s shirts over her head before padding barefoot into the kitchen, making coffee on autopilot. The scent of freshly brewed espresso filled the space, warm and familiar, but even that didn’t settle the restless feeling clawing at her chest. She leaned against the counter, mug in hand, staring out the window at the courtyard below. The world outside was waking up—laughter from passing pedestrians, the distant hum of a Vespa cutting through the morning air—but inside, everything felt dull.
She missed Cruz. She missed her steady presence, the way she always moved through a room like she had already mapped every exit, how she could be so careful and so reckless in the same breath. She missed the warmth of her, the quiet strength in the way she held Aaliyah close at night, like she was something worth keeping.
Aaliyah wasn’t sure how long she stood there, lost in thought, before the knock on the door broke the silence.
Her mood soured instantly. She already knew who it was before she even pulled the door open. And sure enough, there stood Kyle McManus, dressed in his usual tactical-casual attire, sharp-eyed and exuding the smug self-assurance of someone who had been in the game long enough to always expect the upper hand.
Aaliyah groaned and leaned against the doorframe. “Babysitting duty?” she drawled, arms crossing over her chest.
Kyle smirked, stepping past her like he owned the place. “More like keeping the operation from falling apart because you get bored and do something reckless.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes, following him into the kitchen. “Reckless? Me? That doesn’t sound right.”
Kyle merely gave her a knowing look as he grabbed a mug from the cabinet, helping himself to coffee like he belonged here. She hated how unbothered he was. Cruz barely tolerated him, and Aaliyah wasn’t far behind on that sentiment.
But she also knew the game they were playing, and right now, Kyle was part of it.
Aaliyah sighed, pushing her hair over one shoulder. “Let’s just get this over with.”
And so, she began laying breadcrumbs.
The first step was getting a burner phone—cheap, disposable, easy to trace back to her. She made sure to pick it up in a neighborhood just far enough away to make it look desperate, but not so far that it would seem staged. She didn’t linger. Didn’t make eye contact with the shopkeeper. Just another nameless face moving through the streets.
Then came the hardest part—reaching out.
She sat in the dim light of the villa’s study, the burner phone cool in her hands, her stomach twisting as she typed out a vague but desperate message to an old employee of her father’s.
I can’t do this anymore. I need to come home.
She stared at the screen for too long, her thumb hovering over the send button. This wasn’t the first time she had lied, had manipulated, had set the stage for something darker. But every time, it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Because what if this was who she was now? Someone who lured people into traps? Someone who played the long con, who baited people into their own downfall?
Her father would say it was in her blood. That manipulation came as easily as breathing for an Amrohi. Aaliyah hated that thought more than anything. But she pressed send anyway.
A moment later, she deleted the message—but not fast enough. Just long enough for it to be traced. Just long enough to do what it needed to do.
Aaliyah exhaled, sinking back into the chair, her pulse thrumming in her ears. It was done. And now, all that was left to do was wait.
She wanted to be relieved. To feel something close to satisfaction knowing that the plan was in motion, that they were one step closer to finishing this. But all she felt was hollow.
Her fingers tightened around the phone, nails pressing into the cheap plastic. She missed Cruz. She wanted this part to be over.
--
The waiting was the worst part.
Aaliyah had never been good at waiting. She thrived on movement, on action, on being able to exert control over the direction of her life—even if that control had always been an illusion. But now, she was stuck. Held in place by a plan she had agreed to, by the weight of a trap that had already begun to close, by the knowledge that her father and Ehsan were moving closer and closer with each passing day.
And she had to play her part.
The days in Milan blurred together in a haze of carefully calculated steps. The late-night messages from Kyle, the subtle trails she had to leave behind, the false desperation she had to inject into her every move. Each interaction was like walking on glass, a delicate balance between giving just enough away without tipping her hand too soon.
But it was the nights that were unbearable.
Aaliyah lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body restless beneath the cool sheets. Sleep never came easily anymore. When it did, it was shallow, fitful, and laced with dreams that twisted into something unrecognizable by the time she woke.
She turned onto her side, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. The screen cast a soft glow over her face as she unlocked it, her fingers moving without thought to the last thread of messages with Cruz.
You’re doing great.
Two more days.
I’ll see you soon.
Short. Reassuring. Cruz was always like that. But Aaliyah could read between the lines. The subtext of every message was the same—I know this is hard. I know you’re struggling. But hold on just a little longer.
Aaliyah swallowed, the lump in her throat tightening. Two more days. She had already made it through nearly two weeks. She should be able to handle this.
She started typing a reply, something simple, something lighthearted to make it seem like she was fine. But her fingers hesitated over the keys.
I miss you.
The words stared back at her from the screen, fragile and too honest. She deleted them before she could second-guess herself further. Cruz was out there, laying the rest of the foundation for their plan. She didn’t need Aaliyah’s weakness weighing her down.
Instead, she set the phone down and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.
But sleep brought no relief.
The dreams came quickly, winding through her mind like smoke—Greece, sunlight spilling over ancient stone, the scent of salt and burning wood in the air. Her father’s voice, sharp and edged with disappointment. Ehsan’s smirk, his fingers curled too tightly around her wrist. The feeling of being trapped, of being suffocated by the past she had spent years trying to escape.
And then there was Cruz.
Standing just beyond her reach, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze, as if she knew what was coming but couldn’t stop it. As if she wanted to. As if she would, if Aaliyah asked her to.
She woke with a sharp inhale, her chest tight, the ghost of Cruz’s touch still lingering against her skin. For a moment, she thought she could still hear the echo of her voice, the warmth of it brushing against her ear. But it was just the wind outside, rattling against the windows.
Aaliyah let out a slow breath, rolling onto her back. She stared at the ceiling again, her pulse still unsteady.
Two more days.
She could survive two more days. But the ache of missing Cruz had never felt this sharp before. And that terrified her more than anything.
--
The boat ride to Greece was agonizing.
The Mediterranean stretched out endlessly around them, its surface rippling beneath the weight of the late afternoon sun, but Aaliyah barely saw any of it. The rhythmic lurch of the ferry did little to settle the restlessness clawing at her chest. She sat stiffly in her seat, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon, counting down the minutes until they docked.
Kyle, on the other hand, was insufferable. “You know, you’d think someone about to be reunited with the love of her life would be in a better mood,” he remarked, lounging back in his seat with the kind of casual arrogance that made Aaliyah want to throw him overboard.
She shot him a withering look. “Don’t talk to me.”
Kyle smirked. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. We’re practically family at this point.”
Aaliyah exhaled slowly through her nose, gripping the armrest to keep from reacting. Kyle was enjoying himself far too much, and she wasn’t about to give him more ammunition. He was right about one thing, though—she should have been excited.
Instead, her nerves were coiled tight, wound so thoroughly around her ribs that it hurt to breathe. The closer they got to the dock, the more she felt it pressing down on her. The weight of everything. The lies. The plan. The knowledge that in just a few minutes, she would finally see Cruz again, and yet, they would still be standing in the middle of a storm.
The moment the ferry pulled into port, Aaliyah was up.
The second the ramp lowered, she moved—shouldering past slow-moving passengers, ignoring Kyle’s amused chuckle behind her. The air smelled of salt and sunbaked stone, the sounds of the dock chaotic with voices and clattering footsteps, but Aaliyah barely registered any of it.
Her heart was pounding.
She scanned the crowd with sharp, searching eyes. Every muscle in her body braced with anticipation, her breath coming fast, as if the sheer force of her will alone could summon the person she was desperate to see.
And then, like gravity, her eyes landed on her.
Cruz.
Leaning against a dark car parked just beyond the main walkway, arms crossed, posture relaxed but gaze sharp, always assessing. Her dark hair was pulled back in that effortlessly practical way, her sleeves rolled up over her forearms, the fabric of her shirt slightly wrinkled as if she had barely allowed herself a moment’s rest since arriving. She looked exactly the same. A little rough around the edges, but still so painfully, unmistakably Cruz.
Aaliyah barely realized she was moving until she was already halfway there.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t care who was watching. She walked straight into Cruz’s arms. Cruz caught her without a second thought.
The world tilted. For a moment, there was nothing else—no mission, no CIA, no carefully laid plans or looming dangers. Just this. Just the feeling of Cruz’s arms tightening around her, strong and unwavering. Just the way Cruz buried her face in Aaliyah’s hair for the briefest of seconds, the way her hands gripped her a little too tightly, like she needed this as much as Aaliyah did.
Aaliyah pressed her face against Cruz’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of her—clean soap, faint traces of salt from the sea air, the grounding, steady presence of her body against Aaliyah’s own. She didn’t realize how much she had needed this, how much she had been holding her breath since the second Cruz left, until now.
Cruz pulled back first, just slightly, enough to search Aaliyah’s face. Dark eyes sweeping over her, cataloging, checking for something unspoken.
“Are you okay?” she asked, voice low, steady.
Aaliyah let out a breathy, almost incredulous laugh. “Am I okay?” she echoed, shaking her head. “You’re the one who’s been here alone for days.”
Cruz smirked faintly. “I can handle myself.”
Aaliyah’s fingers curled into the fabric of Cruz’s shirt. “I know. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried.”
Something flickered in Cruz’s expression—something unreadable, something that softened just at the edges. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her thumb brush absently over Aaliyah’s lower back, like she needed the reassurance that she was really here.
Behind them, Kyle cleared his throat. “Hate to break up the moment, but we do have a mission to execute.”
Cruz sighed, finally pulling away, but not before pressing a hand briefly against the side of Aaliyah’s face, her touch warm and lingering.
Aaliyah turned toward Kyle, her expression sharp once more. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”
Kyle only smirked. “It’s a gift.”
Cruz glanced between them, one brow lifting. “You didn’t kill him on the way here?”
Aaliyah let out a dramatic sigh. “Tempting, but no. Figured you’d want to get in on that.”
Cruz chuckled, but there was an edge of exhaustion behind it. Aaliyah could see it now, the weight Cruz had been carrying since arriving, the constant vigilance she had kept in Aaliyah’s absence. And she hated that. She hated that Cruz always took on the worst of it alone.
So she stepped closer again, lowering her voice just enough that Kyle wouldn’t hear. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you know.”
Cruz’s gaze softened just enough before she exhaled, shaking her head. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
Aaliyah didn’t argue. Not yet.
She let Cruz take her hand, let her guide her toward the car, let herself feel, just for a moment, the safety in Cruz’s presence before everything else crashed down around them again.
--
The marketplace hummed with life, the air thick with the scent of spices, roasting chestnuts, and freshly baked bread. The golden hour cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets, washing everything in hues of amber and rose. Aaliyah should have found it beautiful—this city, this moment, the illusion of normalcy she and Cruz had built for themselves. But nothing about this was real.
This was a performance. And she had the leading role.
She stood in the center of the square, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice shaking just enough to make the desperation believable. She knew the importance of delivery, the way a slight tremor in her breath could make it all the more convincing.
“Please… I can’t do this anymore.” Her own words made her stomach churn.
“I just—I was wrong. I thought I could live this way, but I can’t. I want to come home.” She let out a hitched breath, biting her lip to keep from overplaying it. There had to be an authenticity to it. Anyone listening had to believe it was real. “Please, tell him—tell my father I’ll do whatever he wants. Just get me out of here.”
She let a pause linger, a carefully constructed silence. Then, with a sharp inhale, she exhaled one final blow.
“Tell Ehsan, too. I’ll make things right with him.”
She clicked the call off before she could hear the response, her fingers tightening around the phone as she forced herself to keep her expression open, shaken. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
A beat. Then another.
And just as planned, she shoved the phone into her bag, wiping at her cheek like she was trying to stop tears from spilling. It was an act for anyone who might be watching—her vulnerability laid bare in the way she wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking in on her own body like a woman who had finally broken under the weight of her mistakes.
She felt eyes on her. Good.
She walked away briskly, her head ducked, her movements stilted as though she were barely keeping it together. She counted the seconds in her head, waiting, waiting, until she rounded a quiet corner and pressed herself against the cool stone of a building, exhaling a breath so sharp it nearly hurt.
She hated this. She hated every second of it.
Every word she had spoken had burned on her tongue, had tasted like poison in her throat.
Because the truth was, Aaliyah Amrohi didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to see her father again. She didn’t want to make things right with Ehsan. She didn’t want any of it. What she wanted was to be where she was. Here. With Cruz. And yet, she had just spun the lie that would make it all come crashing down.
-
The next stage of the plan was even worse.
She had expected the phone call to be the most difficult part, but the staged argument with Cruz? That was where everything inside her started to unravel.
The plaza was open, busy enough for onlookers to take note of them, to see them without it being obvious. The perfect setting for a public fight.
Aaliyah stood rigid, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched, while Cruz kept her voice low, her dark eyes flicking around like she was counting their audience.
“You need to leave this alone,” Cruz said, voice even but edged with just enough frustration to make it believable. “We talked about this.”
“And I told you, I can’t keep doing this.” Aaliyah let her voice rise, made sure it cracked just slightly, threading enough emotion through it to keep the act going.
“You don’t get to make that decision,” Cruz shot back, taking a step closer. “We’re in this together—”
“I never asked for this!” She spat the words like venom, like they weren’t a lie.
Cruz flinched, just barely, but it was there. A flash of something real, something that twisted in Aaliyah’s gut like a knife.
“That’s not fair,” Cruz said, her voice quieter now.
But it didn’t matter.
Aaliyah let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t get to tell me what’s fair.”
Then she turned and stormed off.
She could feel eyes on her as she walked away, the heat of passing glances lingering on her skin like the flames of a burning house.
The whole thing had gone perfectly. And she felt sick.
-
That night, Cruz was quiet. Too quiet.
She didn’t ask how Aaliyah was feeling. Didn’t try to fill the silence. She just watched her, her gaze unreadable but weighted with something Aaliyah couldn’t quite place.
They sat together on the couch, but there was a distance between them that wasn’t normally there. Aaliyah hated it.
After a long silence, she finally spoke. “Are we doing the right thing?”
Cruz’s expression didn’t change, but Aaliyah saw it—that flicker of hesitation. And that alone made her stomach twist.
Finally, Cruz exhaled and said, “We’re doing what we have to.”
Aaliyah held her gaze, searching for something more, something that would make her feel like this wasn’t all going to turn to ash in her hands. But Cruz wasn’t giving her anything else.
Aaliyah nodded once, then looked away. She wanted more than that. But she let it go.
--
The terrace overlooked the quiet streets of Athens, the soft glow of the city stretching out beneath her like an illusion. The night air was cool against her skin, but the heat curling in her chest had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the anticipation, the sharp edge of something inevitable pressing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Aaliyah stepped forward, her hands gripping the railing as she stared down at the empty road below. Empty—for now. But it wouldn’t be for long.
She exhaled, forcing herself to focus on the distant sounds of the city—the muffled laughter from a nearby café, the low hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a stray dog. Normal sounds. Unremarkable. But none of it reached her. She was too caught up in the storm brewing inside her, in the weight of what she was about to face.
Her father. Ehsan.
Aaliyah clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around the cold iron railing. She had spent months running from them, from the life they had mapped out for her without her consent. Now, she was inviting them in. Luring them here like prey.
And yet, she wasn’t sure which of them was truly being trapped.
She swallowed against the knot in her throat, forcing herself to stay steady. This was the plan. This was the only way to end it. Cruz had made sure every detail was airtight, every escape route secured. The CIA was watching. Kyle was watching. There was no scenario in which she wouldn’t walk away from this.
She had to believe that.
A quiet, sharp inhale. Aaliyah straightened, rolling her shoulders back, forcing the tension from them.
Then, she saw it. A car—sleek, black, unmarked—turned onto the narrow street below.
Her breath caught.
The tires rolled to a slow stop just outside the building, the engine humming for a second too long before it cut off completely. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Aaliyah’s pulse pounded in her ears.
The driver’s side door opened first. A man stepped out—one of her father’s guards, his posture rigid, eyes sweeping the street for threats.
Then, the back door swung open.
Ehsan emerged first, and the sight of him sent a cold jolt through Aaliyah’s veins.
He looked exactly the same. Crisp navy suit, ironed to perfection, not a hair out of place, his posture exuding the same effortless control she had always despised. His expression was unreadable, but his movements carried that quiet arrogance he had perfected over the years—like he already knew how this would end, like he was still under the delusion that Aaliyah belonged to him.
Her stomach churned, but she didn’t move.
Then, the other door opened, and a second figure stepped out. Asmar Amrohi. Her father.
Aaliyah’s lungs seized, the air in her chest locking up like she had forgotten how to breathe.
He moved with the same commanding presence he always had—shoulders squared, gaze sharp as he took in his surroundings. His thobe was pristine, his beard neatly trimmed, his expression unreadable beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.
But she knew what lay beneath it.
Disappointment. Rage. Control.
The sight of him was a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from her as a thousand memories crashed down on her at once.
She was a child again, standing in his office as he looked at her with quiet contempt, reminding her that her place had been decided long before she was born.
She was a teenager, forced to smile through introductions to men twice her age, understanding that her life had never belonged to her.
She was the woman she had become, standing on this terrace, about to face the two people who had shaped and shackled her in ways she was only just beginning to unravel.
Aaliyah’s fingers dug into the railing, nails pressing hard against the metal as she fought to steady her breathing.
This was real. They were here.
Behind her, the faintest shift of movement. Then—Cruz’s voice, low and sharp. “Aaliyah.” She didn’t turn. “Aaliyah. Get back inside. Now.”
There was a new edge to Cruz’s voice—tension coiled tight, an urgency that sent a fresh wave of ice through Aaliyah’s veins.
Something was wrong.
Cruz
Cruz moved through the villa in silence, her steps measured and careful as she packed the last of her gear into a small duffel bag. The space was dimly lit, the earliest traces of dawn creeping through the heavy curtains, casting faint streaks of gray across the wooden floors. It should’ve felt peaceful, but instead, it felt like a countdown.
She glanced toward the bedroom door, her jaw tightening. Aaliyah was still asleep, curled beneath the sheets, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. Cruz had debated waking her. Just for a second. Just to say something before she left. But she knew how that would go. Knew what she would see in Aaliyah’s eyes.
The sadness. The uncertainty. The ache that Cruz would carry with her long after she walked out that door.
So she didn’t wake her.
Instead, she stepped closer, moving soundlessly as she set a note on the nightstand. Back soon. Be good. You got this. Simple. To the point. No sentimentality, no lingering words. Because anything more would make it harder to leave.
And Cruz had to leave.
She hesitated for a moment longer, fingers twitching at her side before she exhaled and turned away. The quiet followed her through the villa as she stepped into the hallway, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair and slinging her bag over her shoulder. The weight of it felt heavier than usual.
Maybe because this time, she wasn’t just leaving behind another mission. She was leaving her.
Cruz moved through the streets of Milan before the city had fully woken, slipping through alleyways and side streets like a ghost, avoiding main roads and well-lit areas. Old habits. Ones that never truly left her. By the time she reached the private car waiting to take her to the airport, her pulse had settled into that familiar rhythm—cool, focused, prepared.
The drive was quiet, the hum of the city slowly fading behind her. She kept her gaze on the window, watching as the golden glow of streetlights flickered past, illuminating glimpses of a world she still wasn’t sure she belonged in. Milan had become a safe haven. A place where—for brief moments—she let herself believe in the possibility of a future. Of something more than running, more than surviving.
But that future wasn’t secured yet.
The airport was busy by the time she arrived, a steady stream of travelers moving through security lines and check-in counters, the air thick with the scent of coffee and jet fuel. Cruz moved through it all with practiced ease, slipping past bodies, scanning for anything out of place. Years of training had made it impossible to turn that part of her brain off.
By the time she boarded the plane, her fingers were tense, curled around the strap of her bag as she slid into the window seat. The overhead light flickered on, casting a sterile glow over her hands as she pressed her palms against her thighs, forcing herself to release the tension.
She hated this part. Hated the waiting, the stillness. Hated the feeling of distance stretching between her and Aaliyah with every passing second.
Cruz exhaled slowly, tilting her head back against the seat, her gaze settling on the curve of the wing outside the window. The engines rumbled beneath her, a steady vibration that settled into her bones as the plane taxied down the runway. She stared out at the tarmac, jaw clenched, mind restless.
She’d done this before—left places, left people. It was part of the job. Part of who she was. But this was different. Because Aaliyah was different.
Cruz closed her eyes for a moment, forcing her thoughts into order. There was no room for distraction now. No room for the pull of emotion that threatened to cloud her focus. Greece was the mission. Setting the trap was the priority.
And yet, as the plane lifted off, climbing higher and higher into the pale morning sky, all Cruz could think about was the feeling of an empty bed, the warmth she had left behind, and the woman who had somehow, without her realizing it, become the closest thing she’d ever had to a home.
--
The Aegean Sea stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, its deep blue waters a stark contrast to the sun-bleached buildings stacked against the rocky hills of Santorini. The sky was a soft, endless expanse, tinged with gold from the setting sun. To anyone else, this was paradise. To Cruz, it was just another battlefield.
She moved with purpose, blending seamlessly into the ebb and flow of the island’s tourist population. Every step she took, every glance she stole, every seemingly insignificant purchase she made—it was all part of the act. A carefully choreographed performance meant to catch the right eyes, to set the right trap.
At a small waterfront café, she lingered just long enough to let herself be seen, casually swiping a credit card under one of their aliases for a coffee she barely touched. Her gaze flicked over the people around her—locals, tourists, the occasional businessman taking a call by the railing. She logged every face, every movement, every possible tail.
She wasn’t being followed. Not yet. But soon.
Cruz leaned back, stretching an arm over the back of the chair, playing the part of a woman who had let her guard down. She had already checked into three different hotels under different names, making sure their presence would be noticed in all the right places. The concierge at the high-end resort had seen her flash a stack of cash with a careless smile, tipping well, ensuring her presence wasn’t forgettable. The quiet bed-and-breakfast near the town square had watched her sign in with an easy, confident script, nodding politely at the owner’s hospitality. Every move was deliberate. Every action intentional.
She barely slept.
This wasn’t just about deception—it was a game of chess, and she couldn’t afford a single misstep. One wrong move, one inconsistency, and everything they had worked for would crumble.
By the time she returned to the safe house, exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. The villa was tucked away from prying eyes, a quiet sanctuary overlooking the sea. Inside, it was cool and dark, the heavy wooden shutters keeping the heat at bay. Cruz locked the door behind her and exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face before heading to the dining table, where her laptop sat open, waiting.
This was where the real work began.
She sat down, fingers moving methodically across the keyboard. The trail she was constructing had to be perfect. Digital breadcrumbs that would lead Asmar and Ehsan exactly where she wanted them.
She started with the credit card transactions. Aaliyah’s alias had “purchased” a few luxury items at a boutique in Athens yesterday, booked a private car to take her to Santorini, and had dinner at a high-end restaurant in Mykonos two nights before. Every charge was fabricated, timestamped, geo-tagged. If someone went looking, the receipts would be there. If someone asked, the staff would vaguely remember a woman fitting Aaliyah’s description—Cruz had made sure of that with a few casual conversations, enough to plant the idea without drawing attention.
Next, she manipulated the bank records. Withdrawals from an offshore account, small but frequent, just enough to suggest someone trying to stay under the radar but running low on options. Someone getting sloppy.
Then came the harder part—the messages.
Cruz crafted false text conversations between Aaliyah and a “trusted confidante,” weaving a narrative of desperation, of a woman unraveling at the seams. The words she typed felt foreign, like an invasion.
I can’t do this anymore.
I need to come home, but I don’t trust anyone except my father and Ehsan.
Cruz thinks we can keep running, but I’m done. Please… help me.
The screen cast a cold glow across her face as she read them back. Her stomach twisted. She hated putting words like these into Aaliyah’s mouth, even if it was necessary. She hated the way it sounded so real, how easy it would be to believe that Aaliyah was losing her resolve.
Finally, the last piece—a fake encrypted email sent from an alias she created, reaching out to one of Asmar’s old associates. The language was careful, calculated.
She pressed send. And then she leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, staring at the screen. It was done.
For a moment, she let herself sit there in the quiet, the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance. Her muscles ached, her mind thrummed with the weight of what she had just set into motion.
Aaliyah would never see these messages. She would never hear the desperation Cruz had forced into them, never know the exact words that had been sent in her name. Because Cruz would make sure none of it ever reached her.
Aaliyah wanted freedom. And Cruz would do whatever it took to give it to her—even if it meant lying for her. Even if it meant playing a game where there were no guarantees. Even if it meant becoming someone she wasn’t sure she recognized anymore.
--
Cruz stood near the dock, the crisp sea air threading through her dark hair, carrying the salt of the Mediterranean and the distant murmur of tourists. The Greek sun was relentless, casting sharp, golden rays across the rolling waves, the kind of heat that settled deep in your bones. But Cruz barely noticed it.
Her eyes were locked on the approaching boat. The moment she saw her, something inside her eased.
It was instinct first. Recognition. A sharp, immediate awareness of Aaliyah in a way she didn’t have for anyone else. Even in a crowd, even at a distance, she would always find her. And there she was—stepping onto the dock with the kind of effortless grace that made her stand out no matter how much she tried to blend in. The sight of her hit Cruz like a gut punch, an ache she had trained herself to ignore, but never truly could.
Aaliyah lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, scanning the dock. And then she saw Cruz. She didn’t hesitate.
Cruz barely had a second to react before Aaliyah was in front of her, closing the distance with quick, determined steps, her expression unreadable but her intent clear.
And then, suddenly, she was in Cruz’s arms.
Cruz froze for half a breath, her mind scrambling to keep up with the way Aaliyah’s body molded against hers, the warmth of her pressing in, the scent of her hair carried on the breeze—like jasmine and salt and something achingly familiar. Cruz wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to being the one pulled into something instead of being the one standing apart.
But the moment Aaliyah buried her face against her neck, Cruz let herself have it. Just for a second. Just for this.
Her arms tightened around Aaliyah’s waist, her fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her dress, grounding herself in the simple fact that Aaliyah was here. Safe. Whole. That they had been apart for weeks, but now—now she was close enough to feel.
She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this. How much she had craved this.
But Cruz had never been one to linger in things she couldn’t afford to want. So she did what she always did—she pulled back first.
Aaliyah let out a quiet breath, stepping back but keeping her hands lightly against Cruz’s sides, as if unwilling to let the space between them widen too much. Her eyes, dark and searching, flicked over Cruz’s face like she was trying to memorize something unspoken.
Cruz cleared her throat, forcing herself to shift into mission mode. Always mission first. Always focus. “You made it.”
Aaliyah arched an eyebrow, an amused huff escaping her. “That’s all I get?”
Cruz almost smirked. “You expected more?”
Aaliyah’s lips parted like she had something to say—something teasing, something sharp—but then she exhaled, her expression softening. “I missed you.”
The words weren’t dramatic. Weren’t weighted with expectation. But they landed hard.
Cruz felt them.
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and gave a small nod. It wasn’t enough—not really—but it was what she could manage. “Yeah. Same.”
Aaliyah studied her, like she knew Cruz was deflecting but was choosing not to call her out on it. Instead, she let her fingers slide from Cruz’s sides, stepping fully back but not too far.
Cruz could see it then—the toll the past two weeks had taken on her. The subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze held something sharper, more frayed. She had been playing her role well—too well—but Cruz could see the weight of it.
And she hated that she had to ask more of her.
Cruz exhaled, keeping her voice steady, businesslike. “Kyle’s already set up. We start tomorrow.”
Aaliyah nodded, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the remnants of everything she had done to get here. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Cruz didn’t say what she was thinking. That she was glad Aaliyah was here. That she had counted the days. That the villa felt wrong without her.
Instead, she turned, motioning for Aaliyah to follow. Because this was what she could give her. A plan. A mission. And, if Cruz had anything to say about it, a way out.
--
Cruz watched Aaliyah carefully, her sharp eyes catching every small movement, every nuance in her posture. The way her shoulders seemed heavier than usual. The flicker of something distant in her gaze, like she was watching herself from the outside, detached from the reality of what they were doing. The stress had settled into her in ways that were becoming harder to ignore, weighing her down like an anchor that refused to let go.
They were so close. Just a little longer. But that didn’t make this any easier.
Cruz had spent the last few weeks walking a tightrope, ensuring everything was in place, that the breadcrumbs they were leaving behind were messy enough to seem unintentional but not enough to blow their cover. She had worked missions like this before, operations that required deception, manipulation, and a willingness to be the bait. But watching Aaliyah do it—watching the way it tore into her—made Cruz feel like she was losing something vital. Like each step they took toward luring Asmar and Ehsan out was stripping away pieces of Aaliyah, leaving her frayed at the edges.
And now, there was only one move left before the trap was set.
Cruz braced herself for it, but it didn’t make what came next any easier.
-
The staged argument started as planned. In the heart of a public area in Greece, with its old-world charm and panoramic ocean views, they constructed the final scene in the narrative they had built.
Aaliyah’s voice cut through the air first, sharp and biting, perfectly modulated to sound desperate, exhausted, real. “I can’t do this anymore, Cruz. I can’t keep living like this.”
Cruz swallowed hard before forcing herself to respond. “You knew what this was,” she snapped, voice cold, distant, cruel. She hated how easily the words came out, hated the way Aaliyah flinched—just barely—but enough for Cruz to notice.
“That’s the problem,” Aaliyah shot back, her voice tight with emotion. “I don’t know what this is. Us. Running. Hiding. What the hell am I even fighting for anymore?”
Cruz clenched her fists at her sides, every part of her body rejecting this. She knew this was necessary, knew that they had to make it believable if they wanted the wrong ears to pick it up. But that didn’t stop the sick feeling curling in her stomach.
She had yelled at enemies before. At teammates. At people who had deserved it. But never at Aaliyah. Not like this.
“You don’t have a choice,” Cruz said finally, her tone deliberately harsh. “If you go back, you’ll never be free.”
Aaliyah’s laugh was bitter, cutting. “I’m not free now.”
There was a long pause. The kind that could be felt in the space between them. That silence was enough. Enough to make the walls feel like they were closing in, like the weight of what they were doing was pressing down so hard that Cruz could barely breathe.
Then Aaliyah stormed away. And just like that, it was done.
Cruz stood there in the silence, her heart pounding. She had no idea if there were ears listening in, but if they were, they had just heard exactly what they needed. Aaliyah Amrohi, broken and desperate, ready to return to the life she had fled.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her hands to the wall to her right, bracing herself against the nausea rolling through her gut.
She hated this. Hated every fucking second of it.
-
That night, Cruz found Aaliyah in the small kitchenette, pouring herself a drink. The glass trembled in her hand. Just slightly. But enough for Cruz to notice.
Without thinking, Cruz moved, her body reacting before her mind caught up. She stepped in behind Aaliyah, her hands finding her waist, grounding her. She could feel the way Aaliyah’s muscles tensed at first, then softened, her body instinctively leaning back into Cruz’s.
“It’s almost over,” Cruz murmured against the shell of Aaliyah’s ear, her voice low, quiet.
Aaliyah’s exhale was shaky. “It doesn’t feel real.”
Cruz tightened her grip slightly, pulling her closer. “It will.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, breathing, pressed together in the dim light of the kitchen. Cruz could feel Aaliyah’s heartbeat, fast but steady, and she focused on that—the rhythm, the pulse, the proof that she was still here.
She didn’t have the right words to fix this, to make it easier. So she didn’t try. She just held her.
--
Cruz stood outside the hotel, back against the wall, her eyes scanning the narrow street for anything out of place. The air was thick with salt from the sea, the night breeze ruffling the fabric of her lightweight jacket. Tourists and locals milled about in the distance, laughter spilling from a nearby taverna, but none of it settled the unease creeping up her spine.
Something felt wrong.
She had spent too many years trusting her instincts to ignore them now. The street was too quiet, the usual flow of foot traffic thinning in a way that set her on edge. The pit in her stomach twisted tighter.
She reached into her jacket, fingertips brushing the grip of her weapon.
Then, the sound of tires rolling over cobblestone. Slow. Deliberate.
Cruz turned slightly, her gaze flicking toward the end of the street. A black SUV pulled to a stop, its tinted windows reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps. Every muscle in her body went taut.
Too smooth. Too controlled.
She didn’t wait. Pushing off the wall, she moved toward the hotel entrance, her pace steady but urgent. The plan had been airtight. Aaliyah was supposed to be inside, waiting. The meeting with her father and Ehsan was set to happen in just a few minutes—plenty of time to execute their trap.
So why did Cruz feel like something had already gone wrong?
She stepped through the hotel’s quiet lobby, ignoring the clerk’s polite nod as she headed for the stairs. The weight in her gut dragged heavier with every step.
She reached the room.
The door was ajar.
Cruz’s breath hitched, and her grip on her weapon tightened. She stepped inside, fast, sharp eyes scanning every corner.
Empty. The hotel room was empty. The blood in her veins turned to ice.
Then she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Aaliyah was out on the terrace. Her blood was pounding in her ears.
Cruz turned back toward the door, her pulse hammering against her ribs. She inhaled sharply, forcing down the rising panic. No. She couldn’t afford that. She needed to think.
She moved fast, pressing herself against the wall just outside the door, her weapon raised, heart pounding in her ears. Her voice was low, a razor’s edge. “Aaliyah. Get back inside. Now.”