"That's not fair," I mutter, my voice sounding smaller than I'd like.

She stops, turning to me, hands on her hips. "No? Then tell me, honestly—when was the last time Evan made you feel loved? Not tolerated. Not convenient. Loved."

My throat tightens, a pressure building behind my eyes. I focus on the floor, unable to meet her eyes. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken truths.

Amanda exhales, her voice softer now. "I just want you to be happy, babe. And I've never seen you happy with him."

There it is again—that truth I can’t help but touch, like a bruise I keep pressing just to remind myself it still hurts. I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is," Amanda insists. "You break up. You move on. I did it."

"You got divorced," I point out, running a finger over the cool metal of my can.

"Exactly. And it was the best decision I ever made." She shakes her head, exasperated. "You act like leaving Evan would be some catastrophic event, but what exactly are you losing?"

I don't have an answer. Because the answer is essentially nothing. I would lose an empty space beside me in bed, silent dinners, and the sting of constant disappointment. What am I even clinging to?

Amanda watches me for a long second, then sighs, shaking her head. "Well, maybe your new fictional man will teach you how a real man should behave."

I snort, grateful for the subject change. "Amanda⁠—"

"Nope. No arguments." She's already back on my phone and is tapping away, the subtle clicking of her nails against the screen filling the quiet. "I'm giving you the gift of a boyfriend who actually listens."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "This is ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as staying with a man who makes you feel invisible."

I don't respond. Because once again, she's right, and we both know it. Before I can dwell on it further, there's a knock at the door, the sound reverberating through my office.

Amanda winks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ooh, maybe it's my future husband."

I glare at her as I turn toward the door—only to freeze when I see Callahan standing there. He fills the doorframe with his broad shoulders, his presence immediately changing the energy in the room. The fluorescent lights catch the subtle silver chain at his neck—the dog tags I noticed last night, partially hidden under his shirt.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, voice low and even, but his eyes drift to Amanda with a hint of amusement. "Didn't mean to kill the fun."

"Oh, we were just discussing men who are obsessed with Izzy," Amanda says sweetly. "Just girl talk. Nothing you need to worry about."

I want to die. The heat rising in my cheeks feels like it could set the building on fire.

Callahan raises an eyebrow, his face carefully neutral. "Just checking in. Saw what happened with that client who propositioned you in the fitting room. Making sure you're okay."

I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of how close he's standing. "I'm fine."

He nods, then glances at my desk. "I'll be here late reviewing surveillance, but I'm grabbing dinner. You need anything from outside?"

I’m surprised by the offer. "You're staying late?"

"Security overhaul," he says easily. "Food?"

I shake my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders with the movement. "I'm good, thanks."

"I also need to set up multi-factor authentication on your work email if you don't mind. We're improving security protocols on company devices."

Amanda hands him my phone without asking me, the device disappearing into his large hand. Not like I really have personal information to hide, anyway. Well, except potentially that new app she installed.

He takes it, nods. "I'll be back in twenty."

As he leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway, Amanda gives me a slow, knowing grin that spreads across her face like butter on hot toast.

I groan, dropping my head to my desk, the cool surface a small relief against my flushed skin.

I am so screwed.

DINNER. DESSERT. AND UNRESTRICTED ADMIN ACCESS.

CAL

Izzy's phone burns a hole in my pocket.

I know exactly what I'm going to do with it.

And I know exactly how wrong it is.

As I make my way through the corridors leading to the food court, I try and talk myself out of it. I could just check her email settings like I said I would, hand it back, and pretend I never even thought about doing more.

But I already know that's not going to happen.

Because the second I have access to her phone, I'll know her entire digital life. Every message, every call, every time she leaves Monarch. The weight of the device in my pocket feels heavier with each step, a constant reminder of the line I'm about to cross.

And I know I won't be able to stop myself.

I shove my hands into my pockets, pushing that thought down as I approach one of the takeout spots near the main entrance of the mall. It's late, the crowd thinning out, but the smell of grilled meat and frying oil clings to the air. The last few shoppers drift past me, bags in hand, eager to head home after a long day. I step up to the counter, scan the menu, and order quickly.

Izzy said she didn't want food.

I don't believe her.

She seems like the type of woman who says she's going to eat dinner but then goes home too exhausted to actually take care of herself. The kind who spends all day making sure everyone else is okay but never stops long enough to check in on herself. I recognize the signs from countless deployments—the way she rubs her temples when she thinks no one's looking, the slight slump of her shoulders as the day wears on.

I've seen it before.

And I don't like it.

So, I order for her anyway.

The cashier hands me the bag a few minutes later, the warmth of it seeping through the paper, and I make my way back through the quiet halls. The store is locked up for the night, only a skeleton crew remaining inside—maintenance, overnight stocking, and, of course, security.

I let myself in through the staff entrance and head straight for the security suite. The soft beep of the door unlocking is the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor.

The room is small but efficient, lined with monitors that display every angle of the store. I drop into the chair in front of the main desk, my gaze automatically tracking to camera six—Isabella's office.

She's still there, sitting at her desk, rubbing at her temples like she's been staring at the screen for too long. The warm light from her desk lamp casts a soft glow over her features, softening them in a way they weren't during the day.

I exhale slowly, pulling her phone from my pocket. The screen lights up, displaying a photo of her with who I assume is her family—all smiles, all together.

This is it. The moment I decide just how far I'm willing to take this.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I plug it into my own.

The connection is instant. My software syncs in seconds, feeding me her digital footprint. Texts. Emails. Location tracking. The data flows across my screen, giving me unprecedented access to her private life.

If I wanted to, I could tap into her microphone, hear each conversation around her. If I pushed further, I could access her camera, see exactly what she sees.

I sit back, jaw tight, staring at the screen.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don't do this.