His Unwanted Wife, The Nation's Hero

The drive down to Washington D.C. took hours, but Cilla didn't feel the fatigue. She pulled through the gates of Arlington National Cemetery just as the sky opened up. A steady, freezing rain began to fall, turning the world into a wash of gray. Cilla parked the car. She stepped out, opening a large black umbrella. She held the urn tightly against her side, keeping it completely dry beneath the canopy of the umbrella. She walked up the paved path, passing rows upon rows of identical white marble headstones. As she approached the Columbarium, a cemetery guard in a rain slicker saw the star-spangled urn in her arms. He immediately stopped, snapped his heels together, and rendered a slow, crisp salute. Cilla gave him a brief nod and walked into the covered, open-air structure. The cemetery administrator was waiting for her. He checked her classified military clearance documents with quiet efficiency. He led her down a long corridor of marble niches, stopping in front of a designated section reserved for fallen intelligence officers. Cilla stepped forward. She carefully placed the black urn into the cold stone niche. She took the torn flag, her fingers tracing the ripped fabric, and folded it tightly, tucking the damaged part out of sight. She placed the flag next to the urn. Then, she set the velvet box containing their medals right in front. She took three steps back. Her heels clicked against the wet stone floor. She stood at attention and raised her right hand to her brow in a final salute. She stood there for a long time. The sound of the rain hitting the roof echoed around her, masking the heavy, shuddering breath she finally let out. Her parents were safe now. They were among their own. Cilla turned away from the niche and walked back toward the entrance of the Columbarium. She stood under the stone archway, pulling out her phone. There were thirty missed messages from her best friend, Lena. Where are you? Are you okay? Call me. Cilla typed back quickly. I'm fine. Heading back to NY to file the divorce papers. A gust of freezing wind blew rain under the archway. Cilla narrowed her eyes against the biting chill, her face an unreadable mask as she pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her neck to block the damp cold. She looked up and saw a massive, armored black Maybach rolling slowly up the driveway. The car stopped silently. Four men in dark suits stepped out immediately, opening large black umbrellas. The rear door opened. A man stepped out into the rain. He was tall, with broad shoulders hidden beneath a perfectly tailored black trench coat. His face was sharp, angular, and completely devoid of emotion. It was Bennett Carpenter. The ruthless head of the East Coast's most powerful financial dynasty. Bennett adjusted his cuffs, his dark eyes scanning the area. His gaze swept over the archway and landed on Cilla. Cilla's tactical instincts flared. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. The man exuded an overwhelming, predatory aura. She met his gaze through the sheets of falling rain. For one single second, time seemed to stop. Bennett's eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of intense familiarity flashed in his dark pupils. He tilted his head, studying the shape of her face, the defiant set of her jaw. Cilla didn't break eye contact, but her expression remained completely blank. She stepped out from under the archway, opening her umbrella, and walked past his entourage toward the parking lot. Bennett stood frozen in the rain, watching her back until she disappeared into the gray mist. "Sir," one of the bodyguards murmured, stepping closer with the umbrella. "It's time." Bennett tore his eyes away from the empty path. He turned and walked into the Columbarium. Cilla got into her car, her heart beating slightly faster than normal. She gripped the steering wheel, pushed the strange encounter out of her mind, and started the engine. She had a war to fight in New York.