Chapter 6 Betrayal's Blade

# Chapter 6: Betrayal's Blade

The morning after our moonlit confrontation, an uneasy truce settled between Neil and me. He'd revealed just enough to confirm my suspicions but not enough to satisfy my growing hunger for the complete truth. We circled each other cautiously, two predators aware of each other's capabilities but uncertain of intentions.

"I have to go to the office today," Neil announced over breakfast, watching me carefully. "An unavoidable meeting."

"Am I allowed to leave while you're gone?" I challenged, stirring my untouched coffee.

Neil's expression remained neutral. "You've never been a prisoner, Lois."

"The security team in the lobby might suggest otherwise."

"They're for protection, not confinement." He set down his cup. "If you want to go out, just let the front desk know. They'll arrange an escort."

"An escort," I repeated flatly. "How considerate."

Neil sighed. "It's complicated."

"You keep saying that."

He checked his watch—a movement I now recognized as deliberately casual. "I'll be home by six. We can talk more then."

After he left, I stood at the window watching his car pull away, contemplating my next move. Despite our confrontation, I still had more questions than answers. If I had been sent to kill Neil multiple times, who had sent me? And why did I apparently keep failing?

More importantly, what had happened a week ago that had left me without memories?

I decided to conduct a more thorough search of the penthouse while Neil was gone. The handcuffs had given me leverage last night, but I needed concrete evidence—something that would fill the gaps in my fractured memory.

I started in the places I hadn't yet fully explored: the locked guest room that contained my supposed office, Neil's study, and finally, the one area of the penthouse I'd been subtly discouraged from investigating—the attic storage space accessible only through a pull-down ladder in the hall closet.

The ladder descended smoothly when I tugged the cord, suggesting recent use despite Neil's claim that they rarely accessed the space. I climbed up cautiously, using my phone's flashlight to illuminate the dim area.

The attic was unexpectedly well-organized, with labeled storage boxes lining built-in shelves. Most contained ordinary items—seasonal decorations, extra bedding, old financial records. But in the far corner, partially concealed behind a heating duct, I spotted a metal trunk secured with a padlock.

The lock was high-quality but no match for the skills my body remembered. Within minutes, I had it open, my pulse quickening with anticipation.

Inside, beneath a protective cloth, lay a black tactical case. My hands trembled slightly as I unzipped it, revealing a dismantled sniper rifle nestled in custom foam padding. Beside it, sealed in plastic, was a black compression bodysuit with reinforced joints—professional-grade tactical gear.

These weren't just any assassin's tools. They were mine. I knew it with absolute certainty the moment my fingers touched the rifle's custom grip, perfectly contoured to my hand. Muscle memory took over as I began assembling the weapon with practiced efficiency, each component clicking into place like I'd done it a thousand times.

When the rifle was fully assembled, I noticed something else in the case—a waterproof pouch containing documents. I set the weapon aside carefully and opened the pouch.

Inside were blueprints of a corporate building labeled "Hamilton Industries Executive Suite," with security details meticulously annotated in handwriting I recognized as my own. Accompanying the blueprints was a dossier on Neil—his daily schedule, security protocols, even his blood type.

But most damning was a final document: a contract. My eyes widened as I scanned the contents. It was a professional hit order with my code name at the top—"Artemis"—and Neil Hamilton listed as the target. The payment amount made my breath catch: ten million dollars, with half already deposited in an offshore account.

The client's identity was coded, but a handwritten note in the margin caught my attention: "Third attempt must succeed. Client growing impatient."

Third attempt. The phrase from my memory fragment.

As I continued examining the documents, I found something unexpected—financial records showing that Neil's company had recently uncovered evidence of corporate espionage. Someone high in his organization was selling proprietary technology to competitors. The investigation had narrowed to three executives, but before they could be identified, the assassination contract on Neil had been issued.

I was still processing this revelation when I heard it—the faint sound of the front door opening. Neil wasn't due home for hours. Instinctively, I repacked everything exactly as I'd found it, secured the trunk, and silently descended the ladder, pulling it up behind me just as footsteps approached the hallway.

I slipped into the bathroom, heart pounding, and turned on the shower to explain my presence in this part of the apartment. Through the crack in the door, I glimpsed Mrs. Chen moving efficiently through her cleaning routine.

After she left that area, I "finished" my shower and casually made my way back to the bedroom, mind racing with my discoveries. I was indeed an assassin, sent to kill Neil—likely by whoever was behind the corporate espionage, eliminating the man who was closing in on them.

But why had I failed twice before? And what had happened on the third attempt?

I spent the afternoon in a state of hypervigilance, waiting for Neil's return while formulating a plan. I needed to confront him with what I'd found without revealing where I'd found it. And I needed to be prepared if his response turned violent.

In the kitchen, I selected a knife with a weighted handle, similar to the tactical blade I'd discovered in my hidden equipment. I concealed it in the pocket of my cardigan, where it would be easily accessible.

When the elevator chimed at six o'clock precisely, I was waiting in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa with feigned casualness.

"How was your day?" Neil asked, loosening his tie as he entered.

"Enlightening," I replied. "I remembered a few things."

His movements stilled, eyes sharpening. "What things?"

"My name," I said carefully. "My real name. Or at least, my code name."

The change in Neil was subtle but unmistakable—a slight shift in stance, weight redistributing for optimal balance, hands relaxing at his sides. Combat readiness.

"And what might that be?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

"Artemis," I answered, watching his reaction closely. "Goddess of the hunt."

Something flickered in his eyes—not surprise, but confirmation. "That's what they call you, yes."

"They?"

"The organization that trained you. That sends you on... assignments."

I rose slowly, maintaining distance between us. "Like the assignment to kill you?"

Neil didn't deny it. "Yes. Like that one."

"Why would they want you dead?"

"Because I'm close to identifying them," he answered. "My company developed a security protocol that could expose their entire network. They can't allow that to happen."

This aligned with the documents I'd found, but I needed more. "And I've tried to kill you before? Twice?"

Neil moved to the bar and poured himself a drink. He offered one to me, which I declined with a shake of my head.

"The first time was eighteen months ago," he said, sipping his scotch. "A long-distance attempt. You missed deliberately—left your lipstick mark on the bullet casing that embedded in the wall beside my head."

"And the second?"

A faint smile touched his lips. "Six months later. You broke into my previous apartment. I woke to find you standing over my bed with a knife. You could have killed me easily, but instead, you left the knife on my pillow and disappeared."

"Why would I miss deliberately?" I pressed. "That makes no sense."

Neil set down his glass. "Would you like to see something?"

Without waiting for my response, he walked to his study. After a moment's hesitation, my hand brushing the concealed knife for reassurance, I followed.

Inside, Neil unlocked a hidden panel behind a painting—a safe more sophisticated than the one I'd discovered earlier. It required not just his thumbprint but a retinal scan as well.

"After the second attempt," he explained as the safe opened, "I started investigating you as thoroughly as you'd investigated me."

From the safe, he withdrew a flash drive. "This contains security footage from the night of your second attempt. I think you should see it."

He inserted the drive into his computer and pulled up a video file. The timestamp showed a date roughly a year ago. The footage was crisp, showing a night-vision view of a bedroom—Neil's, I presumed—where a figure slept.

A shadow moved at the edge of the frame—someone entering through the window with fluid, silent grace. Me. Even with my face partially obscured by a tactical mask, I recognized my own movements.

In the video, I approached the bed with a knife, standing over the sleeping figure for a long moment. Then, inexplicably, I placed the knife on the pillow beside Neil's head and turned to leave.

But before I could reach the window, the Neil in the bed moved with startling speed, grabbing my wrist. A silent struggle ensued—both of us displaying advanced combat training—before Neil pinned me against the wall, removing my mask.

There was no audio, but I could see the conversation that followed was intense. Then, most shockingly, the encounter ended not in violence but in a kiss—passionate and desperate, as if we were lovers reunited rather than assassin and target.

Neil paused the video on that frame—the two of us locked in an embrace that defied all logic.

"That was the first time we spoke," he said quietly. "The first time I saw your face."

I stared at the screen, struggling to reconcile the image with my fractured memory. "This doesn't make sense. Why would I... why would we..."

"Chemistry," Neil answered simply. "Or fate. Or the universe's twisted sense of humor. Whatever you want to call it, there was something between us from that first moment. Something neither of us expected."

"So what happened after this?" I gestured to the frozen image.

"You disappeared again. But two weeks later, you returned—without weapons this time. And then again a week after that." His eyes held mine. "We began a relationship that defied every rational explanation. Enemy by day, lovers by night."

The story was absurd—a professional assassin falling for her target. Yet the video evidence was compelling, and it explained the collection of bullet casings with my lipstick mark. Trophies from failed attempts.

But something still didn't add up.

"If what you're saying is true," I said carefully, "then what happened a week ago? Why did I lose my memory?"

Neil's expression darkened. "Your handlers grew impatient with your failures. They gave you an ultimatum for your third attempt—succeed or face the consequences. You came to warn me, to help me escape." He paused. "But they were watching. When they realized you were betraying them, they sent another operative."

"I was shot," I said, the realization dawning as my hand moved to the wound on my side.

Neil nodded grimly. "The bullet was meant for me. You pushed me aside." His voice grew rough with emotion. "You nearly died in my arms, Lois. The doctors weren't sure you'd survive."

"And the memory loss?"

"A combination of trauma and something they did to you before the mission. Your handlers injected you with something—a compound designed to ensure compliance. When you were wounded, it affected your brain chemistry."

The story was elaborate, detailed—and perfectly tailored to explain everything I'd observed. Perhaps too perfect.

"Why didn't you tell me all this from the beginning?" I demanded.

"The doctors warned that forcing memories could cause psychological damage. They recommended creating a stable environment and allowing your mind to heal naturally." His eyes held mine. "And I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if you remembered everything at once—who you were, what you'd done—you might revert to your training. Or worse, flee back to the organization out of confusion."

It made a certain kind of sense. But as I looked at Neil—this man who claimed to love me despite my attempts on his life—doubt crept in. The entire scenario felt scripted, like an elaborate cover story.

"I need some air," I said abruptly, turning toward the door.

Neil caught my arm gently. "Lois, wait. There's something else you should know."

I tensed, my hand inching toward the concealed knife.

"Your organization thinks you died that night," he said quietly. "I used my resources to falsify medical records, create a death certificate. As far as they know, both their operative and their target were killed in the confrontation."

"Why would you do that?"

"To protect you." His grip on my arm loosened. "To give us a chance at a life together."

I pulled away, mind spinning. "I need time to process this."

Neil nodded, respecting my space. "Take all the time you need."

I retreated to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. The story Neil had told matched the evidence I'd found—the bullet casings, the tactical equipment, the contract with its note about the "third attempt." It even explained the security measures in the apartment and his reluctance to let me leave unescorted.

But was it the truth? Or an elaborate manipulation?

I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the scar on my side. Something about Neil's explanation still didn't satisfy me. If I had truly fallen in love with my target, betraying my employers for him, why did I feel no emotional connection to him now? Why did my instincts still scream danger in his presence?

My gaze fell on the closet—specifically, on the section where Neil kept his suits. Earlier, while searching, I'd noticed something odd about the dimensions of the wall behind it.

Moving quietly to ensure Neil wouldn't hear, I slid the suits aside and pressed against the wall panels. After several attempts, I found it—a hidden pressure point that caused a section of the wall to pop open, revealing a narrow storage space.

Inside, mounted on specialized hooks, hung an arsenal that would impress even a seasoned operative: custom handguns, tactical knives, and equipment I recognized as high-grade military tech. Not the tools of a businessman, no matter how security-conscious.

But what caught my eye was a small leather case on the shelf. Opening it, I found a collection of syringes prefilled with clear liquid, each labeled with dates—the most recent being exactly one week ago.

The same day I'd supposedly been shot. The same day my memories had vanished.

I carefully replaced everything and closed the hidden compartment. Then I retrieved the knife from my pocket and slipped it under my pillow.

Neil's story about our forbidden romance might be true. The video evidence was compelling. But these hidden weapons and mysterious injections suggested there was still much he wasn't telling me.

As night fell, I lay in bed beside Neil, feigning sleep while my mind raced. Tomorrow, I would need to push harder for the complete truth. And I would need to be prepared for the possibility that the man sleeping peacefully beside me—the man who claimed to love me despite my attempts on his life—might be an even more skilled assassin than I was.