Chapter 1

Ethan Cooper was the FBI's youngest director in Fernwick. Cold in demeanor and ruthless in execution, he was widely known for his absolute impartiality and his deep hatred of crime. To stay by his side, Iris Whitman had torn up her acceptance letter from Vantrel University in her final year of high school and instead enrolled in the law school he attended. After graduation, she used her connections to join the FBI field office where he worked and became a federal agent under his command. In her first year, the field office assigned high-risk missions by drawing lots for the first time. There were only two sticks, one long and one short. The short one meant a death assignment. Iris drew the short stick, and Ethan sent her undercover into a cross-border human-trafficking ring. In her fourth year, the draw occurred again. Her fingers trembled as she reached in, and she drew the short stick once again. This time, it was an overseas drug operation. In the sixth year, the draw returned like a curse. Iris stared at the familiar short stick in her hand and suddenly burst into laughter. This time, he sent her to Averlain to investigate a major corruption case. In six years, three short sticks had left her with scars that would never fade and a catastrophe that tore her family apart. During her last mission, her mother, Helen Reed, and her five-year-old brother, Caelum Whitman, were killed in an explosion set off by the kidnappers right before her eyes. The only thing that kept her crawling back from pools of blood, time and time again, was the promise Ethan made her before every mission. His voice was gentle yet cutting like a blade. "Iris, once we wipe out this batch of criminals, we'll get married." Iris believed him. She believed him with her blood, with the lives of her loved ones, and with a body riddled with injuries. This time, the mission that nearly killed her finally ended. Iris dragged her battered body back to the FBI field office to report in, clutching a freshly issued medical report. The report stated that she had sustained serious cardiac damage, and the doctor's red-ink warning made it clear that without proper recovery, she might have less than three years to live. Iris lowered her head and traced that cold verdict. Yet, a small, fragile hope quietly bloomed in her heart. This was fine. Three years was enough time to heal, put on a white wedding gown, walk up to Ethan, and become his most beautiful bride. As soon as she reached the door of the FBI director's office, before her fingers touched the doorknob, a low, restrained voice inside cut through the air like ice. "What? Are you out of your mind? You're seriously planning to let Iris draw the death lot again?" Iris' hand froze in midair. That voice belonged to the Deputy Director, Leo Maxwell. "The first three draws were rigged. You deliberately made the sticks the same length, and it has already cost her her family!" Each word struck like a heated nail, driving straight into her ears. "Mr. Cooper, she's your beloved fiancée. Do you really have the heart to do this to her?" Iris' mind went blank. It felt as if her blood was rushing backward, freezing her limbs. Then, she heard Ethan's calm, aloof voice—the very voice she had listened to for over two decades, the same voice she had clung to as salvation on countless desperate nights. "Watch your tongue, Leo. The draw is a fair procedure. The outcome is a matter of probability." Ethan paused before continuing, "Besides, I love Iris. She's my fiancée. No one feels more for her than I do." Probability? No one felt more for her than he did? Iris' body began to tremble uncontrollably. The gunshot wound in her chest, which hadn't yet healed, flared up with intense pain. Through the crack of the door, the sharp outline of his profile overlapped with the handsome boy in the white shirt from her memories. When they were children, he had risked his life climbing a tree to retrieve her kite. In middle school, he had confronted her stepfather, who had tried to force himself on her, with a knife. In university, when she was cornered by thugs, he had still put himself between her and them even after being stabbed in the waist. The man she had always dreamed of marrying had pushed her into the abyss with his own hands. Leo sighed. "It's been six years, Mr. Cooper. I'm sure you know better than anyone how she's lived these six years. "During her first mission, she was tortured with electric shocks and waterboarding for three days and nights. All ten of her fingernails were ripped out. When she came back, she ran a high fever and was unconscious for a week. And what did you give her? A Medal of Valor citation. "During her second mission, she was forcibly injected with drugs. To prevent herself from leaking intelligence while hallucinating, she locked herself in solitary confinement and smashed her head against the wall. The metal door was covered in bloody marks from her nails. "When we broke in, she was delirious, her mouth full of blood, and calling out your name. Yet, you were celebrating Violet's birthday, so your phone was off! During her third mission…" Leo's voice was choked full of emotion. "Her whole family was kidnapped. Her mother and her five-year-old brother… were blown apart right before her eyes! Iris took a bullet to the chest and collapsed in the ruins, clutching her brother's toy car. "The doctors issued three critical condition notices. Yet, you only stood outside the operating room for half an hour, because Violet called and said she was afraid to be on her own. You left without a second thought!" As those heartbreaking memories resurfaced, Iris felt as though an invisible hand had clamped around her heart, squeezing it until it shattered. Caelum's last hoarse cry of her name still echoed in her ears. The flames, the heat, the flesh and blood splattering across her face… and the small body in her arms that could never be pieced together again. It hit her then that Ethan hadn't been absent that day because of urgent work. He had chosen to leave because of Violet Caldwell, who was afraid to be alone. Then, a long, suffocating silence stretched on inside the office. Iris leaned against the cold wall to keep herself from collapsing. She parted her lips, but nothing came out. Only hot tears spilled from her eyes, burning her cheeks. Ethan spoke again. His voice was still calm, rational, and cruel. "I know all of that, Leo." He knew. Those two words cut her apart like the sharpest blade. "But Violet's different—she's my mentor's daughter," he continued matter-of-factly. "I promised my mentor I'd take good care of her. Besides, she just joined the FBI field office, and she lacks experience and mental resilience. Those cross-border pursuits are too dangerous for her. "Iris, on the other hand…" He paused, as if searching for a more appropriate word. "She's a veteran federal agent. She's skilled and strong-willed. Even if she runs into danger, she knows how to get herself out. Besides…" There was a faint, sickening note of relief in his voice. "Didn't she make it back alive the first three times?" A tear dropped onto the back of Iris' hand, splashing against the critical condition notice she was clutching. A small patch of the paper darkened as it was soaked. Iris lowered her head and focused on the spreading stain. Then, she looked at the loose platinum ring on her ring finger, the one Ethan had given her three years ago. He had told her it was their engagement ring, and he would replace it with a wedding band once her mission was over. So, that was it. In his eyes, all her resilience, all her struggles, and all the times she clawed her way back from hell were not wounds that needed to be cared for but expendable assets. Because she could take it, she deserved to be pushed into the abyss, time after time. Violet, on the other hand, was "different". She was fragile. So, Iris' parents had died for this. Her five-year-old brother deserved to be blown apart, and her scarred body and her remaining three years of life were all acceptable losses in Ethan's eyes. A faint, almost inaudible chuckle was forced out from deep in her throat. Iris held herself together, and she didn't barge in to confront him. A bone-deep cold rose from her feet to her head, freezing the last bit of warmth inside her. Slowly, she straightened up, raised her hand, and roughly wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her uniform. Her movements were harsh, as if she were attempting to wipe away not the tears but the blind devotion and trust she had carried for more than 20 years. Then, she spun on her heel. With her back to the tightly closed door that represented power and betrayal, she walked down the empty corridor, one step at a time.