Right after the wedding, my husband began to belittle melittle did he know Id been undercover all along.
*”You look so beautiful tonight, I can hardly believe my luck. Truly, I never thought fate would bring me someone like you.”*
Arthur spoke those words on our first evening together, sliding into the seat beside me at *The White Hart*. His eyes gleamed with sincerityor what most would mistake for it.
I smiled back, holding his gaze just a second too short before glancing away. A slight tilt of the chin, lashes half-lowereda look Id rehearsed to perfection. Not too eager, not too cold. Just enough mystery.
My superior, Chief Inspector Whitmore, had handed me his file five weeks prior.
*”Emily, youre the only one who can get close. Weve watched him for three yearsnothing sticks. Hes careful, untouchable. And he responds to a certain type of woman.”*
*”What type?”* Id asked, flipping through the dossier. Handsome, yes. Tall, commanding, with a gaze like a blade.
*”The kind who lets herself be led. No sharp edges. Someone he can control.”*
I nodded. A role I knew by heart. New identity, new papers, new wardrobe. Emily Hart vanished; Alice Fairchild took her placea translator, tired of loneliness, dreaming of a family.
Now he sat across from me, smiling, talking property deals and contracts. *”You see, Alice,”* he said, fingers brushing my wrist, *”I dont believe in coincidences. Our meeting was destined.”*
I felt the grip in his touchthe habit of ownership. I smiled as Id been trained to: soft, yielding. *”Neither do I, Arthur.”*
The next three months blurred. Flowers, Michelin-starred meals, weekends in Cornwall. He was lavish, attentive, flawless. I played my partquiet, grateful, fading into his shadow.
Every night, a report to HQ. Every morning, a briefing. Every day, another thread in the web: shell companies, offshore accounts, bribes disguised as consultancy fees.
*”Youll be my wife,”* he declared on day ninety-two. Not a questiona decree.
The wedding came sooner than expected. A manor in the Cotswolds. White lace. Champagne. Waltzes. My team lurked among the guestsWhitmore in a navy suit, pretending to be a distant aunt. As we danced, she hissed:
*”Two months, three at most. We need proof. Emails, names, datesstraight from his laptop.”*
I nodded, smiling as if shed complimented my dress. A ring on my finger, a camera in my pendant. Three more hidden in the house. A transmitter sewn into my handbag.
That evening, we drove to his estatea white-columned monstrosity behind iron gates. I lingered on the terrace, staring at the stars, when he gripped me from behind. Whisky sharp on his breath.
*”Now youre mine.”*
I turned, forcing adoration into my eyes. But something in his face chilled methe look of a man whod finally dropped the act.
The game had begun.
Next morning, I woke to curtains yanked open. Sunlight stabbed my eyes.
*”Up. Nine oclock. No time to dawdle.”*
Arthurs voice had hardenedbrittle, impatient. A different man stood there: jaw tight, eyes flinty.
*”Breakfast in fifteen. Dont be late.”*
He left without waiting. The mask was slipping faster than predicted. *”Men like him cant pretend forever,”* Whitmore had warned. *”Control is their oxygen.”*
Downstairs, the housekeeper laid out pastries. Arthur typed furiously, ignoring me.
*”I thought Id attend that interview today,”* I said, buttering toast. *”The translator position”*
*”No.”* He didnt look up. *”My wife doesnt work for pennies.”*
*”But I love”*
His palm slammed the table. Crockery jumped. *”Did I stutter? No.”*
Old fury stirred in methe real Emily Hart, whod once disarmed a mugger with her bare hands. But I bit it back. Lowered my eyes. Clenched my fist under the table till it ached.
*”Of course, darling.”*
Weeks passed in a cold war. Arthur micromanaged everythingoutings, phone calls, even my clothes.
*”You wore this blouse yesterday,”* he sneered. *”Think I married a slob?”*
I changed without a word. Every insult, every demandrecorded, transmitted. But I needed more: his office, his safe, the files behind the Turner painting.
Nights, I combed the house for passwords. Days, I played the broken wife. His tantrums only fed his arrogance.
*”You belong to me,”* he hissed, wrenching my chin up. *”Never forget that.”*
*”Yes, Arthur.”* But in my ear, Whitmore whispered: *”One more week. Were close.”*
Then, luck. As he showered, he left his phone unattendeda rare slip. Four seconds to bypass the passcode. Six minutes to extract everything before slipping it back.
*”Whats taking so long?”* he barked, towel slung low.
*”Sorry,”* I murmured, steeping his tea. Inside, I grinned. The phone data was gold.
He gulped it down, grimaced. *”Cant even get this right.”*
The mug shattered in the sink. *”Clean it. Then bed. Youre pathetic.”*
Kneeling among shards, I heard Whitmores voice: *”Sullivans flipping. Excellent work. Stand down.”*
That night, back in my flat, I scrubbed off the role under scalding water. Outside, London glowed. A half-drunk coffee sat on the counter.
Final act. Arthur had called a meeting at his country house”logistics issues,” hed said. I knew better.
Darkness swallowed the drive. Whitmores team waited in the trees.
*”Time to go,”* I murmured, pulse singing.
Inside, Arthur lounged, smug as a king. I smiled sweetly.
*”Darling, Im bored. Lets end this.”*
The game was over the moment he realizedhed never been the one in control.
