Chapter 8 Confession with Blank Rounds

# Chapter 8: Confession with Blank Rounds

The reception following their unconventional wedding ceremony was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Journalists hovered at the periphery, desperately trying to make sense of what they'd witnessed. The Interpol agents mingled casually with guests, maintaining their cover while ensuring security. Meanwhile, Milo and Noelle moved through the crowd with practiced smiles, deflecting questions with vague references to "family traditions" and "theatrical wedding surprises."

When they finally escaped to the privacy of the limousine, Noelle wasted no time.

"Explain," she demanded as soon as the door closed. "All of it. Now."

Milo loosened his tie, the only visible concession to the strain of the day. "Which part would you like me to address first? The holographic will? The Interpol connection? Or perhaps why I initially approached you with what appeared to be blackmail?"

"Let's start with that last one." Noelle kicked off her heels, the adrenaline of the day finally giving way to exhaustion. "You threatened an orphanage, Milo. Children."

"I threatened nothing," he corrected. "I presented a scenario where my intervention was the only viable solution to a genuine problem. The orphanage was indeed failing multiple safety inspections—inspections I did not fabricate or influence."

"Semantics."

"Reality." His gaze was steady. "The orphanage needed significant upgrades to remain operational. You needed protection from Sokolov's network, who had already attempted to eliminate you once in Barcelona. I needed a partner with intimate knowledge of Sokolov's operation and unimpeachable ethics. The contract marriage addressed all three issues simultaneously."

"And your grandmother's will? That ridiculous requirement about being arrested?"

"Not arrested specifically—challenged by someone of strong ethical character." Milo's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "My grandmother was... unconventional in her methods. She believed that power without accountability corrupts inevitably. The will stipulated that I could only retain control of the Phoenix Foundation and its resources if I found someone willing to stand up to me publicly."

Noelle rubbed her temples, trying to process the layers of manipulation. "So you created this elaborate scheme to make me fall in love with you, then publicly oppose you, all to satisfy a clause in your grandmother's will?"

Something flickered in Milo's eyes—surprise, perhaps even vulnerability. "The arrangement was designed to secure your cooperation and fulfill the will's requirements. Your emotional involvement was neither anticipated nor necessary to the plan."

The clinical assessment stung more than Noelle expected. "Well, mission accomplished then. You've got your inheritance secured and Sokolov on the run. What happens now?"

"That depends." Milo reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an object that made Noelle's breath catch—her service weapon, the one that should have been hidden in her wedding dress.

"When did you—"

Advertisement

"During the ceremony. You were distracted by the hologram." He held the gun by the barrel, offering it to her grip-first. "You should check the magazine."

Warily, Noelle took the weapon, ejecting the magazine to find it filled with blank rounds. "You replaced my ammunition."

"A precaution. I wasn't entirely certain how you would react to the revelation." His expression remained unreadable. "The dress designer was quite insistent about the exact dimensions of the hiding place in the crinoline."

"You had Valentina create a custom compartment for my gun, then replaced my bullets with blanks? Why give me a weapon at all if you were going to sabotage it?"

"I wasn't sabotaging you," Milo countered. "I was ensuring that if your instinct was to shoot me, no permanent damage would result."

The absurd practicality of his reasoning was so quintessentially Milo that Noelle didn't know whether to laugh or scream. "Has anyone ever told you that you have serious trust issues?"

"Frequently. Usually before attempting to kill me." He reached into his pocket again, this time producing a small leather case. "Here. Real ammunition, if you feel the need to be properly armed."

Noelle accepted the case but set it aside without opening it. "I'm not going to shoot you, Milo. Though I'm still tempted to punch you."

"Understandable." He glanced out the window as the limousine wound its way back toward the mansion. "For what it's worth, I did consider more conventional approaches. Direct recruitment proved unworkable given your distrust of authority figures following Barcelona. A simple business proposition would have lacked the necessary leverage to ensure your commitment."

"So naturally, forced marriage was the logical solution." The sarcasm in her voice was cutting.

"It was efficient," he replied, unperturbed. "It provided legal protections for both parties, a plausible cover for our collaboration, and satisfied my grandmother's eccentric requirements."

Noelle studied him, searching for any sign of remorse or understanding of how manipulative his actions had been. Finding none, she changed tactics. "And the orphanage repairs? Sneaking onto the roof in the middle of the night to fix leaks?"

For the first time, Milo appeared slightly uncomfortable. "A practical matter. The children required dry sleeping conditions."

"You could have hired someone."

"I was already there conducting security assessments. It was more efficient to address the issue personally."

The conversation paused as the limousine arrived at the mansion. Security personnel flanked the entrance, Richards among them, alert for any threat despite the supposed celebration of the day.

Once inside, Milo led Noelle to his study rather than the reception area where staff had prepared a private dinner for the newlyweds. He locked the door behind them, then moved to a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of aged scotch and two glasses.

"I believe the traditional phrase is 'we need to talk,'" he said, pouring generous measures into both glasses.

Noelle accepted the offered drink, taking a substantial sip before responding. "Yes, we do. Starting with what happens now. Is this marriage actually legal, or was it just theater for your grandmother's will?"

"It's legally binding." Milo took a seat across from her. "Though it can be annulled or dissolved at your discretion, now that the primary objectives have been achieved."

"Just like that? Mission accomplished, thanks for your service, here's your divorce papers?"

Something shifted in his expression. "Is that what you want?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither had fully acknowledged. Noelle took another sip of scotch, buying time to organize her thoughts.

"What I want," she finally said, "is honesty. No more games, no more manipulation, no more hidden agendas. Just straight answers."

Milo considered this, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Very well. Ask your questions."

"The ring. Your grandmother's emerald. Was that part of the plan too?"

His hesitation was barely perceptible. "No. That was... an improvisation."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it was not required by the will or necessary for Operation Phoenix." He set his glass down carefully. "It was a genuine offer."

Noelle felt her heartbeat quicken. "An offer of what, exactly?"

"Partnership. A continuation of our arrangement on revised terms, should you find the current collaboration... satisfactory."

The clinical language couldn't quite disguise what he was really saying. Noelle decided to push further. "And if I wanted more than a 'satisfactory collaboration'? If I wanted an actual relationship with emotional involvement?"

Milo's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not... conventionally equipped for traditional romantic attachments. My emotional responses are atypical."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the truth." He met her gaze directly. "I cannot promise what most women would consider normal emotional engagement. I can promise respect, protection, loyalty, and exclusivity. I can promise to value your input and protect your interests as my own. Beyond that..." He trailed off, a rare moment of uncertainty.

Noelle set her glass aside and stood, moving to the window that overlooked the cliffside. The ocean beyond was dark now, moonlight creating a silver path across the water. "When you left that knife under my pillow the first night—the one inscribed 'To my beloved wife'—was that just another manipulation?"

"No." His answer came quickly, with unusual certainty. "That was... a gesture I couldn't fully explain even to myself."

She turned to face him. "Try."

Milo rose, approaching her with measured steps. "I recognized in you a kindred spirit—someone who understands darkness but chooses light. Someone who needs to be prepared, armed, ready for whatever comes." His voice softened slightly. "The inscription was presumptuous, but the intention was genuine. I wanted you to have protection that acknowledged your capability rather than diminished it."

It was perhaps the most honest thing he'd ever said to her, and Noelle found herself unexpectedly moved. Still, one more test remained. She reached for her gun, now loaded with the blanks he'd substituted, and aimed it squarely at his chest.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger right now," she challenged. "Even with blanks, at this range it would hurt like hell."

Milo didn't flinch, didn't back away. Instead, he reached slowly into his jacket and withdrew a small magazine, identical to the one in her gun except for a subtle marking on the base.

"Because those aren't blanks," he said quietly. "They're real rounds."

Noelle's finger froze on the trigger. "What?"

"The magazine in your weapon contains live ammunition. The blank rounds are here." He held up the magazine in his hand. "I switched them back while you were looking at the ocean."

Stunned, she lowered the gun immediately. "You gave me back a loaded weapon knowing I might shoot you?"

"Yes."

"Why would you take that risk?"

His expression softened fractionally. "Because trust must begin somewhere, Noelle."

The echo of his note from weeks ago—left with the photograph from the secret room—wasn't lost on her. Carefully, she engaged the safety and set the gun aside.

"You're either the most trusting man I've ever met or the most manipulative," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between." He moved closer, close enough that she could see the faint lines around his eyes, the nearly invisible scar along his jawline. "One last revelation, if we're being entirely honest with each other."

From his pocket, he withdrew a new object—another magazine, but this one clearly different from the others. He pressed it into her hand.

"What's this?" she asked.

"The magazine I just gave you, the one I claimed contained blank rounds? It's also loaded with live ammunition."

Noelle stared at him. "You lied? Again?"

"A final test." His eyes held hers steadily. "I needed to know if you would pull the trigger believing the rounds were harmless. You didn't."

"So this whole thing—"

"Was to determine if your ethical boundaries would prevent you from causing harm even when you believed it would be non-lethal." Something like admiration flickered in his expression. "You passed."

"This isn't a game, Milo," she said, anger flaring. "You can't keep testing people like lab rats to see how they'll react."

"I know." For the first time, genuine regret colored his voice. "It's a habit formed from years of betrayal. Trust doesn't come easily to me."

"Nor to me, after this." She turned away, needing distance from his intensity.

Before she could move far, Milo caught her wrist gently. The touch was light, easy to break if she chose, yet somehow it anchored her in place.

"The magazine has an engraving," he said softly. "Look at it."

Curious despite her anger, Noelle examined the magazine in her hand more closely. Etched into the metal base were the words: "Bad cop. Good wife."

A startled laugh escaped her. "Is this your idea of romance? Weapons with personalized inscriptions?"

"It's my attempt at... something." His usual eloquence seemed to have abandoned him. "The ring is inside."

"What?"

"Open it."

With trembling fingers, Noelle pressed the release catch on the side of the magazine. Instead of bullets, a small velvet pouch slid out, containing the emerald ring from the shooting range.

"This is..." She struggled to find words.

"Unconventional," he supplied. "Like everything else about our situation."

Noelle examined the ring more carefully now, noticing for the first time an inscription inside the band—a small series of numbers that made her heart skip: 1372-94.

"This is my orphanage ID number," she whispered, looking up at him in shock. "How did you—"

"Your records were sealed when you were adopted at age seven," Milo said quietly. "But my grandmother kept track of all the children who passed through her foundation's care. Including a young girl who was particularly adept at picking locks and escaping her room after curfew."

The implication struck Noelle like a physical blow. "Your grandmother founded Hope Haven?"

"Through a series of shell corporations and trusts, yes. It was one of her first philanthropic ventures." His expression softened with rare emotion. "You were never just a random detective who investigated Sokolov, Noelle. You were always part of the Phoenix Foundation family."

As the pieces clicked into place—her sealed childhood records, the mysterious benefactor who had funded her college education, the scholarship that had enabled her police academy training—Noelle felt decades of carefully constructed identity shifting beneath her feet.

"Why didn't you tell me this from the beginning?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Would you have believed me? Or would you have assumed it was another manipulation?" Milo's question wasn't accusatory, merely pragmatic. "Some truths can only be accepted when discovered, not when presented."

Noelle looked down at the ring, at the childhood identification number that had followed her from foster home to foster home before she'd finally been adopted. All these years, she'd believed herself alone in the world except for the children she now protected. The possibility that she'd always been watched over, guided from afar, was both comforting and unsettling.

"I need time," she said finally. "To process all of this."

Milo nodded, stepping back to give her space. "Of course. Take whatever time you need. The marriage can remain in name only until you decide what you want."

As she turned to leave, magazine and ring still clutched in her hand, Milo spoke once more.

"Noelle." His voice held an unfamiliar note of vulnerability. "When you're ready, I'll be here. With real bullets, blank rounds, or no weapon at all—whatever makes you feel safest."

The unexpected sentiment—awkward yet somehow perfect in its honesty—made her pause at the door. Without turning, she replied softly, "Goodnight, husband."

She could have sworn she heard him whisper "Goodnight, wife" as the door closed behind her.