Updated Oct 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
The call came at 3 AM.
Natalie jerked awake in Grant’s arms, disoriented in the studio where they’d fallen asleep on the couch surrounded by paintings and plans for their future.
Agent Morrison’s voice was urgent. “We need you at the safe house. Now. Both of you.”
Twenty minutes later, they sat in a conference room Natalie hadn’t seen before, deep in the basement of an FBI building. Morrison looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Gabriel Cortez is dead,” she said without preamble. “Found in his apartment two hours ago. Single gunshot to the head.”
“Julian’s people?” Grant asked.
“Dominic’s. We’re sure of it.” Morrison pulled up crime scene photos on her laptop. Natalie looked away. “Cortez was the one who attacked Scarlett in the hospital. He was our best lead to finding Dominic. And now he’s gone.”
“So Dominic’s cleaning up,” Natalie said.
“More than that. He’s eliminating anyone who can connect him to the attacks. Which means—” Morrison looked at Natalie directly. “You’re next. You and Scarlett are the only witnesses who can testify about the hospital assault. Who can connect Dominic directly to attempted murder.”
“We’re in protective custody—”
“Which didn’t stop someone from getting to Scarlett before. And didn’t stop Dominic from finding and killing Cortez in a safe house.” Morrison’s expression was grave. “Ms. Knight, I’m recommending you enter witness protection. Real witness protection. New identity. New location. Until trial.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “For how long?”
“Months. Maybe longer. Dominic has resources. He’s motivated. And he’s proven he can get to people we’re supposedly protecting.”
“No.” Grant’s voice was flat. “Absolutely not. We just—” He gestured helplessly. “We just figured everything out. We’re building something. She’s not disappearing.”
“Mr. Stone, I understand this is difficult—”
“Difficult? She’s not some witness you can just relocate like furniture. She’s—” His voice cracked. “She’s everything.”
Morrison’s expression softened. “Which is exactly why she needs to go. Because if Dominic wants to hurt you, Mr. Stone, the best way to do that is through her.”
Natalie’s blood ran cold. “You think he’d come after me to get to Grant?”
“I think Dominic blames both of you for his current situation. His cousin’s in federal custody. His operation’s exposed. His legitimate cover is destroyed. And you two are the reason.” Morrison pulled up another file. “We intercepted communications yesterday. Dominic’s hired new contractors. And your names are on the list.”
Grant stood abruptly, pacing. “Then we both go. Both of us into protection together.”
“That’s not how it works. You’re still needed here for depositions, for untangling Stone & Rivers’ finances, for—”
“I don’t care about finances. I care about keeping her safe.”
“Then let me do my job,” Morrison said firmly. “Ms. Knight goes into protection. You stay here, surrounded by security. We catch Dominic. Then she comes back. That’s the play.”
Natalie looked at Grant’s face—the panic, the desperation—and felt her heart breaking.
“How long?” she asked quietly.
“Ms. Knight—” Grant started.
“How long?” she repeated to Morrison.
“Six weeks minimum. Until trial starts. Maybe longer if we can’t locate Dominic before then.”
Six weeks. A month and a half. An eternity.
“Natalie, you can’t—”
“I have to.” She turned to Grant. “If staying here means putting you in danger, I have to go.”
“No. We’ll figure out another way. Better security. We’ll—”
“There is no other way.” Natalie cupped his face in her hands. “Grant, listen to me. Dominic already took your company. Your reputation. Everything you built. I’m not letting him take your life too.”
“He’s not taking you either.”
“He won’t. Because I’ll be somewhere he can’t find me.” Natalie’s voice shook but held firm. “And when this is over, when he’s caught and the trial’s done, I’ll come back. I promise.”
“You don’t know that. What if something happens? What if Dominic finds you anyway? What if—”
“What if we spend the rest of our lives living in fear?” Natalie interrupted. “Because that’s the alternative. Looking over our shoulders forever. Never building that gallery. Never having the life we planned.”
Grant pulled her close, his arms almost painfully tight. “I just found you. I can’t lose you now.”
“You won’t lose me. I’m just—” She swallowed hard. “I’m just going away for a little while. And then I’m coming back.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Morrison stood. “I’ll give you two some time. But Ms. Knight, we need to move you before dawn. The fewer people who know where you’re going, the safer you’ll be.”
After she left, Grant and Natalie held each other in silence.
“I don’t want you to go,” Grant said finally.
“I don’t want to go either. But Grant—I can’t be the reason you get hurt. I can’t.” Natalie pulled back to look at him. “These past two weeks, you’ve become—you’re everything. And the thought of Dominic using me to get to you, hurting you because of me—”
“None of this is because of you. It’s because of Scarlett. Because of Dominic’s choices. Because of—”
“Because I pretended to be someone else and we fell in love in the middle of a nightmare.” Natalie managed a weak smile. “But we did fall in love. Real, honest love. And that’s worth protecting. Even if protecting it means being apart for a while.”
Grant kissed her—desperate, aching, full of everything they couldn’t say.
“Six weeks,” he said when they finally broke apart. “That’s all. Not a day longer. The moment Dominic’s caught, you come home.”
“The moment he’s caught,” Natalie agreed.
They spent the next hour planning. Morrison returned with forms to sign, procedures to explain. Natalie would be relocated to a secure facility somewhere rural—Morrison couldn’t tell them where, not even Grant. She’d have a handler who’d check in daily. No contact with anyone from her old life except through monitored FBI channels.
“Can I call him?” Natalie asked.
“Once a week. Monitored and recorded. Five minutes maximum.” Morrison’s voice was apologetic. “I know it’s not ideal.”
“It’s not even close to ideal,” Grant said. “But if it keeps her alive, I’ll take it.”
At 4:30 AM, with the sky just beginning to lighten, Natalie packed a small bag. Morrison had given her a list of what she could bring—essentially nothing that could be traced. No personal items. No phones. Nothing from her old life.
“What about this?” Natalie held up the sketch Grant had made of her days ago. Her painting at the easel, absorbed in color.
Morrison hesitated. “That should be okay. Nothing identifiable in the image.”
Natalie carefully rolled the sketch and placed it in her bag.
Grant walked her to the car—a nondescript sedan with tinted windows and two federal marshals in the front seat.
“I’ll write to you,” he said. “Every day. Morrison said letters can be forwarded through channels.”
“I’ll write back.”
“And I’ll be working on the gallery. Getting everything ready. So when you come back, it’s—” His voice broke. “It’s perfect. Everything we planned.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be ours.”
They kissed one more time, and Natalie memorized everything—the way his arms felt around her, the smell of paint and coffee that always clung to him, the way his voice softened when he said her name.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too. Always.”
Then she got in the car, and the marshals drove away, and Grant stood in the parking lot watching until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
Inside the car, Natalie finally let herself cry.
“First time in witness protection?” one of the marshals asked, not unkindly.
“First time being separated from someone I love,” Natalie managed.
“It’s temporary. That’s what you have to remember. Temporary.”
But as they drove through the city—past the studio, past the hospital where Scarlett was recovering, past the penthouse where this whole nightmare had started—temporary felt like forever.
They drove for six hours. North, then west, then north again. Backtracking. Ensuring no one could follow. By the time they reached their destination—a small farmhouse in what looked like the middle of nowhere—Natalie was exhausted.
“This is it,” the marshal said. “Your home for the next six weeks.”
The farmhouse was sparse but comfortable. Two bedrooms. A kitchen. A living room with a TV that only got local channels. No internet. No phone except the secure line to her FBI handler.
The marshals did a security sweep, showed her where the panic buttons were hidden, explained the protocols for emergencies.
“Someone will be watching the property 24/7,” the female marshal said. “You won’t see them, but they’re there. You’re safe here, Ms. Knight.”
After they left, Natalie stood alone in the empty farmhouse and felt the weight of isolation settle over her.
She unpacked her small bag. Found Grant’s sketch and hung it on the bedroom wall where she could see it first thing every morning. Traced the lines of her own face as he’d drawn it—absorbed in painting, lost in creation, beautiful in a way she’d never seen herself.
That’s how he sees me, she thought. Not invisible. Not second choice. Beautiful.
The ache of missing him was physical. She could still feel the ghost of his arms around her. Still smell paint and coffee on her clothes from their last embrace. Still taste his goodbye kiss on her lips.
Six weeks suddenly felt like forever.
Then she noticed something else in her bag. Something she hadn’t packed.
A letter. In Grant’s handwriting.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Natalie,
If you’re reading this, you’re already gone. Already somewhere safe. Already missing me as much as I’m missing you.
I slipped this into your bag when you weren’t looking. Call it insurance against the loneliness I know you’re about to feel.
Six weeks feels impossible right now. But we’ve survived worse. We survived lies and betrayal and Julian pointing a gun at us. We can survive six weeks apart.
I’m going to work on the gallery every day. I’m going to paint. I’m going to build everything we talked about so that when you come back, it’s real. Not a plan. Not a dream. Real.
And every night, before I go to sleep, I’m going to think about you. About the way you see colors. About your terrible jokes. About how you look when you’re absorbed in painting and the rest of the world disappears.
You’re not alone, Natalie. Even miles away. Even with marshals watching and secure lines and all the distance between us—you’re not alone.
I’m with you. Always.
Come home safe.
All my love,
Grant
P.S. I put something else in your bag. Check the small pocket.
Natalie fumbled with the zipper, found the small pocket. Inside, a ring.
Not an engagement ring. Something simpler. A silver band with a small painted flower etched into it.
And another note: A promise. That I’m waiting. That you’re coming back. That we’re building something real. Wear it if you want. Or don’t. Just know it means you’re mine and I’m yours, even when we’re apart.
Natalie slipped the ring onto her finger and sobbed.
Six weeks.
She could do six weeks.
For Grant. For their future. For the gallery and the life they were building.
She could do anything if it meant coming home to him at the end.
That first night, she lay in the unfamiliar bed and imagined Grant beside her. Imagined his steady breathing, the weight of his arm across her waist, the way he’d pull her close in his sleep like he was afraid she’d disappear.
She imagined his hands on her skin. The way he looked at her like she was art. The way his voice dropped when he said her name.
The longing was so intense it hurt.
Six weeks, she reminded herself. I can survive six weeks of wanting him if it means forever after.
Even disappear into nowhere and wait for the world to be safe again.
Even that.
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