TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 28 | THE OFFER

I kept listening.

"But when you thought I was gone," she said quietly, "you said you'd come back for me."

I cut her off, placing my finger against her lips and willing her to stop speaking. She didn't need to explain herself anymore. I understood.

She didn't tell me, because she wanted to see how I'd react. She wanted to know if I was just putting on an act for show, and once she was gone, I'd snap back to 'reality' and move on without her. But when I said I'd come back, that's when she knew I never faked anything.

That it was all real.

That I loved her.

"I trust you," she whispered.

And that was enough for me. Hearing her say she trusted me was like hearing her say she loved me. I knew she did, in her own special way. She was never wired like that—to have all her feelings out on the table—so having her trust was the equivalent of having her heart.

"Don't cry, you lemon," she laughed quietly, "I'm not actually dead."

I chuckled, wiping my brimming tears with the back of my hand. "You look like you're crying too."

"I got stabbed in the back, that's why."

"I know that's not why you're crying."

"I'm not crying!"

"Yes, you totally are!" I laughed, "there's literally a tear on your cheek, [y/n]!"

She quickly brushed it off. "What tear?"

I wanted to stay in this moment forever, letting the sunlight fall over us as we laughed together for what felt like the first time, but the door to her hospital room was thrown open. Two men dressed in suits walked in, sunglasses propped over their eyes.

I stood up from my chair defensively, furrowing my brows. [y/n] looked about ready to hop out of bed and start punching someone.

"Agent Partridge," one of the men said, "your presence is required outside."

I pursed my lips. "Agent?"

"Yes sir."

I thought I'd been stripped of that title the day I was framed. Giving a reassuring look to my girl next to me, I stalked across the small room, following the two strangers out into the hallway.

They stopped outside the door, one of them reaching into their pocket to pull out their paging device.

"Message from the Higher-Ups," they said.

I took it from their hands, squinting my eyes to read the small lettering.

725,

Your presence is required at Headquarters. 8pm.

"What do they want?" I frowned.

The taller man explained. "They're giving you your job back."

What?

This was my chance. I could be an Agent again, living in luxury, doing a job I liked, and having my reputation saved at last. I wanted this. I didn't think they'd give me this chance, but considering that we just saved London, maybe it was already in the cards.

"Bloody hell," I grinned, "they want me there at eight?"

I turned to walk back into the room, excited to tell [y/n] the news, but one of the men's hands barricaded me from taking another step. I reeled back in confusion.

The man shook his head. "Leave the girl."

"I'm sorry?" I stammered, "why?"

"She's a marked criminal, and your position as an Agent prevents personal connections. Rule Seventeen, Mr. Partridge."

Glancing back at the door, I could see [y/n] through the thin glass window that separated us. She was still curled up under her blankets, but was blowing bubbles into her juice box as she waited for me to come back.

But I couldn't come back. Not if I took this job.

And I wanted this job.

"We apologize for any inconvenience," they said, "but it's the Agency or the girl."

In that moment, I felt no hesitation.

I nodded my head, handing them the pager. It felt unreal, feeling a whole different path of life slip out of my fingers and go down the drain. Strange, but it felt better. I knew what I had to choose. It wasn't even a question. I didn't need to think a single word about how this wasn't a mistake, and how I was making the right choice.

"Screw the job," I said, turning away, "tell them I've found someone better."