Chapter 10 The Final Honeymoon

# Chapter 10: The Final Honeymoon

Three weeks after my collapse, life had settled into a new kind of normal. Neil's wound was healing well, allowing him to resume limited work duties from home. My headaches continued intermittently—brief, searing reminders of the chemical manipulation my brain had endured—but no further memory lapses occurred.

Each morning, I discovered one of Neil's hidden video messages, each offering another piece of our shared history. Some were practical, detailing security protocols or explaining financial arrangements. Others were deeply personal, recounting first dates and private jokes. Through these breadcrumbs, I pieced together a picture of the woman I had been and the relationship we had shared.

I still didn't remember living that life, but I was beginning to understand why I had chosen it.

"I have a proposal," Neil said one morning over breakfast. He looked better than he had in weeks, color returning to his face as his strength rebuilt. "The doctor says I'm cleared for more activity. I thought we might get away for a few days."

"Away?" I looked up from my coffee. "Where?"

"That amusement park," he suggested, watching my reaction carefully. "The real one, not the staged version I took you to before."

The suggestion surprised me. "We actually had a history there? That wasn't fabricated?"

Neil smiled. "Completely real. It's where we had our third date, four and a half years ago. I thought... maybe seeing the authentic place might trigger something."

I considered this. We'd been cautious about leaving the apartment since Neil's shooting, wary of potential threats despite assurances from our handlers that Alvarez's capture had neutralized immediate danger.

"You're sure it's safe?"

"As safe as anywhere," Neil replied. "The agency has dismantled most of the network's domestic operations. And we'll have discreet security."

The prospect of escape from the apartment's refined confines was appealing, even if just for a day. "Alright," I agreed. "Let's do it."

Two days later, we arrived at Wonderland—the real one, a sprawling amusement park that had existed for decades, not the hastily constructed facade Neil had shown me during my amnesiac state. Unlike our previous visit, this park bustled with families and couples enjoying the autumn sunshine.

"It looks familiar," I admitted as we walked through the entrance, Neil's hand resting lightly at the small of my back. "Not from memories, exactly, but from the photos you showed me."

"Those photos were real," Neil confirmed. "Edited to remove other people for security, but the moments were genuine."

We strolled through the park, stopping occasionally when Neil's still-healing wound required rest. He pointed out landmarks from our early relationship—the carousel where we'd shared cotton candy, the picnic area where we'd been caught in a sudden downpour, the fortune teller's booth where an elderly woman had predicted we would have a "life of extraordinary adventures."

"She wasn't wrong," I observed wryly.

As afternoon waned, Neil suggested one final stop before heading home. "The Ferris wheel at sunset," he said. "It was always your favorite."

We boarded the massive wheel just as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in vivid oranges and pinks. Our car rose slowly, lifting us above the noise and energy of the park into comparative quiet.

"This is where I proposed," Neil said softly when our car reached its apex, suspended between earth and sky. "Four years and three months ago."

I turned to him, surprised. "Here? On the Ferris wheel?"

He nodded. "You said once that you felt most alive in places between—transitional spaces where you weren't quite one place or another. So I thought, what better place than suspended in midair at sunset, between day and night?"

The sentiment resonated deeply—this sense of existing in liminal spaces had defined my entire experience since awakening without memories. Always between who I had been and who I might become.

"What did I say?" I asked. "When you proposed?"

A smile touched Neil's lips. "You laughed. Then you said, 'It took you long enough.'"

I found myself smiling in return, the response feeling somehow right. Our car began its descent, the moment of suspension passing as all such moments must.

As we neared the ground, I noticed a man standing near the exit—middle-aged, unremarkable in appearance except for the intense way he watched our approach. Something about his stance triggered warning signals in my mind, professional instincts flaring to life.

"Neil," I said quietly. "The man by the exit. Gray jacket."

Neil's body language shifted subtly, alert without being obvious. "I see him."

"He's watching us."

"Security is nearby," Neil assured me, his hand moving casually toward his jacket where I knew he carried a concealed weapon despite his injury.

Our car reached the loading platform. As we exited, the man in the gray jacket approached, his expression unreadable.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," he greeted us, his voice oddly familiar. "What a pleasant surprise."

Neil positioned himself slightly in front of me, protective despite knowing I was fully capable of handling threats. "Can we help you?"

The man smiled—a cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I've been bringing you flowers for weeks, Mrs. Hamilton. Don't you recognize me?"

Realization dawned. The flower vendor from the park near our apartment—the older man with weathered hands who sold me white peonies. Except now, up close, I could see the weathered appearance was expertly applied makeup, the stooped posture a careful performance.

"You," I whispered, memories suddenly crystallizing. "You gave me the orders. For all three attempts on Neil."

The man—my former handler—inclined his head slightly. "Very good. Your memory appears to be returning."

Neil's posture tensed further. "What do you want?"

"Merely to confirm a suspicion." The handler's eyes never left my face. "Our organization doesn't appreciate loose ends, Mrs. Hamilton. When reports of your death proved... exaggerated, certain questions needed answering."

My mind raced, evaluating escape routes, potential weapons, the likelihood of backup. "You've been watching us all this time."

"From a respectful distance," he acknowledged. "I was curious to see if the memory agent had performed as designed. Clearly it did not."

"The memory agent?" Neil's voice hardened.

"A fascinating compound," the handler explained conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Designed to create selective amnesia, erasing emotional connections that might interfere with mission parameters." His cold eyes fixed on me. "You were our most promising operative, Artemis. Until sentiment compromised you."

Something shifted inside me at his words—not memory exactly, but recognition. This man had seen me as nothing but a weapon to be wielded. And when that weapon developed a will of its own, he had tried to reset it through chemical means.

"What happens now?" I asked calmly.

The handler glanced around, noting the families and couples surrounding us, the security guards Neil had mentioned. "Nothing today. This is merely... reconnaissance."

"The organization is finished," Neil stated flatly. "Alvarez gave up your entire network."

A thin smile stretched the handler's lips. "Did he? How convenient."

Before either of us could respond, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease. Neil immediately contacted our security detail through a concealed earpiece, but I already knew they wouldn't find him.

"We need to leave," Neil said urgently. "Now."

The drive home was tense, both of us processing the implications of the encounter. The organization wasn't as dismantled as we'd been led to believe. My former handler knew I was alive and had been monitoring us, perhaps for weeks.

Back in the penthouse, secured and swept for surveillance devices, Neil paced the living room despite the pain it clearly caused his healing wound.

"We should contact the agency," he insisted. "Arrange for relocation, new identities."

"No," I said firmly, the decision crystallizing with surprising clarity. "I'm done running. Done hiding."

Neil stopped pacing, studying me with concern. "Lois, this man—your handler—he's dangerous. The organization may be wounded but it's not destroyed."

"Then we finish it," I stated simply. "We draw them out and end this."

Something shifted in Neil's expression—respect mixed with concern. "You sound like you have a plan."

"I do." I rose and moved to the window, looking out at the city below. "They want Artemis. Let's give them what they want."

The next morning, we set our plan in motion. Using channels my former handler would be monitoring, I sent a message—cryptic but clear to those who knew where to look. I was alive, dissatisfied with my current arrangement, and open to renegotiation of terms.

Neil established the trap—a meeting location that appeared vulnerable but was actually under our complete control, with agency support positioned discreetly. The bait was information on the Phoenix protocol, which I would offer as proof of my renewed loyalty.

"Are you sure about this?" Neil asked the night before the meeting, concern evident in his voice. "We could still walk away. Disappear."

I turned to face him, more certain than I had been about anything since awakening without memories. "I need to end this. To close this chapter completely before I can truly begin the next."

His eyes searched mine. "And after? What then?"

"After," I said softly, "we start our life together. Properly this time."

The meeting was set for noon the following day at an upscale hotel restaurant—public enough to discourage immediate violence, private enough for sensitive conversation. I dressed carefully in a sleek charcoal suit, professional and deadly. The Chanel 99 Pirate lipstick completed my transformation into Artemis—the identity I had once inhabited, now a role I would play one final time.

Neil would be nearby, coordinating with agency support despite my protests about his still-healing wound. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he had said firmly.

I arrived early, selecting a table with clear sight lines to all entrances and exits. At precisely noon, my former handler appeared, now dressed impeccably in a tailored suit rather than his flower vendor disguise.

"Artemis," he greeted me, sliding into the seat opposite. "Or do you prefer Lois these days?"

"Names are irrelevant," I replied coolly. "Results are what matter."

He smiled thinly. "Indeed. And your results have been... inconsistent lately."

"A temporary setback," I assured him. "One I'm eager to correct."

We engaged in a careful dance of words—me offering enough of the Phoenix protocol to seem genuine, him probing for weaknesses in my story. Throughout, I maintained the persona of a professional who had temporarily lost her way but was now back on track, disillusioned with her attempt at domestic life.

"The Phoenix protocol will expose your entire network," I explained. "Unless certain modifications are made. Modifications only I can implement, having been inside Hamilton Industries."

"And your husband?" the handler asked, watching me closely. "He's a complication."

I met his gaze without flinching. "As I said. A temporary lapse in judgment, now corrected."

"You understand we would require proof of your renewed commitment."

I had anticipated this. "Of course."

The handler slid a small case across the table. Inside was a syringe filled with clear liquid. "A test, then. Hamilton will be at the charity gala tonight. This will look like heart failure—quick, painless, untraceable."

I kept my expression neutral as I accepted the case. "Consider it done."

"We'll be watching," he warned. "No mistakes this time, Artemis."

After he left, I met Neil and our agency support team in a suite upstairs. The syringe was immediately secured for analysis—another piece of evidence against the organization.

"He bought it," Neil confirmed, having monitored the conversation. "The gala tonight is the perfect opportunity to bring them all down. Our analysts have identified three other organization representatives who will be in attendance."

I nodded, feeling strangely detached as I wiped away the crimson lipstick that had become Artemis's signature. That identity no longer fit, like clothes I had outgrown.

That evening, the trap closed perfectly. As my former handler and his associates watched from strategic positions around the gala, expecting to witness Neil's assassination, agency teams moved in with precision. The arrests were quiet, discreet—wealthy donors continued sipping champagne, oblivious to the major operation concluding in their midst.

I stood on the terrace, watching as the handler was escorted discreetly to an unmarked vehicle. He caught my eye just before being placed inside, his expression one of grudging respect mixed with bitter defeat.

Neil joined me, handsome in his tuxedo despite the slight stiffness in his movements from his healing wound. "It's over," he said quietly. "Truly this time."

"Is it ever really over?" I wondered aloud.

"Perhaps not entirely," he acknowledged. "But this chapter is."

We remained at the gala just long enough to maintain appearances, then slipped away, returning to the penthouse that had been the stage for so much of our complex drama.

In the quiet of our living room, Neil reached into his jacket and withdrew a small envelope. "I have something for you."

Inside was a travel brochure for a seaside resort—the kind of idyllic destination that appeared in honeymoon advertisements.

"What's this?" I asked.

"A proposal," Neil replied. "A real honeymoon. No covers, no missions, no pretending. Just us, figuring out who we are together now."

I studied the brochure, then looked up at the man who had been patient beyond measure, who had prepared for every contingency of my memory loss, who had taken a bullet meant for me without hesitation.

"When do we leave?"

His smile was answer enough.

Two days later, we stood on the private balcony of our resort suite, the ocean stretching endlessly before us. No weapons hidden in our luggage, no surveillance to maintain, no roles to play except ourselves—whoever we were now becoming.

"Any regrets?" Neil asked, joining me at the railing.

I considered the question seriously. "I regret not remembering our first four years. But I don't regret who I am now, or the choices that brought me here."

He nodded understanding. "Memory is strange that way. Sometimes the things we forget shape us as much as the things we remember."

As sunset painted the sky in brilliant hues, I felt a familiar disorientation—the warning sign of one of my episodes. The world tilted briefly, darkness encroaching at the edges of my vision before receding.

Neil's hands steadied me immediately. "Lois? Are you alright?"

I blinked, the moment passing. Looking down, I noticed the wedding ring on my finger—the simple platinum band we'd reclaimed from the safe, not the ostentatious diamond from our cover story.

A smile spread across my face as I met Neil's concerned gaze. "Today's game," I said softly. "Is it pretending to have amnesia?"

Confusion crossed his features, followed by cautious hope. "What?"

"Or is today's game called forever?" I continued, the words coming from some place deeper than conscious thought.

Neil's eyes widened with recognition—this was apparently something from our past, something I couldn't possibly know unless...

"Lois," he whispered. "Do you remember?"

I shook my head slowly. "Not everything. Maybe not ever. But enough." I touched his face gently. "Enough to know that whatever comes next, this is where I want to be."

As the last light of day faded from the sky, Neil pulled me close, his kiss a promise more binding than any mission, any memory, any past we had shared or future we might build. In that moment, suspended between who we had been and who we were becoming, we were exactly where we belonged.

The game called forever had just begun.