Chapter 9
In a twisted way, Liana Langston almost felt grateful to Adrian Graham–for severing every last escape route.
When she first heard of his supposed death, her mind had been in a fog.
At one point, she even mistook the man posing as “Landon Graham” for her dead husband.
Maybe he feared she’d cling to the past.
Maybe he truly wanted her to let go.
So Adrian Graham had made a public vow during an all–army meeting: he would spend the rest of his life as Zoe Young’s husband.
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He even destroyed every trace of his real identity–his diploma, his medals, the pocket watch that once held their photo together.
Tossed it all into the furnace.
“So she can finally accept reality, he’d told the executive officer.
Now, there was no evidence left to prove he was Adrian Graham.
If he tried to reveal his identity, he’d either be institutionalized or court–martialed for fraud.
Either way–it was a dead end.
And that dead end had become Liana’s strongest shield.
Miles Lawson finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
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In his memory, Adrian had always been the calculating king of special ops, never making a move without a plan.
Who would’ve thought that twisted love would lead him to back himself into a
corner?
Good.
That man would never steal Liana Langston from him again.
Miles tightened his grip, enveloping her hand completely.
His fingertips, callused from years of gripping a gun, brushed over the scars on the back of her hand, his voice rough but resolute.
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6 blana, I, Miles Lawson, swear on the 70/shoulder marks–if I ever betray you, may my
own sidearm misfire and end me.”
A bird cut across the brilliant blue sky as the train whistle pierced the morning air.
He added softly, “But before that, look at this!” He pulled a velvet box from his jacket. Inside lay a delicate version of his West Point class ring. “This one’s yours now.”
Before she could reply, he pulled her into an embrace.
His scent was clean, sun–drenched, with the faint tang of soap–like a beam of warm light piercing through an ice cellar in winter, making her taut spine relax involuntarily.
“Liana,” he whispered by her ear, “I’ve waited ten years for you. Ever since y you danced
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Swan Lake at the base performance–I’ve known how hard it’d be for you to let go of the past.”
His palm cradled the back of her head, fingers grazing her hairline.
“All I can do is turn the rest of my life into something you’ll love. It’s okay if you don’t trust me now… we’ve got time.”
His calm voice carried the weight of unshakable steel.
Like warm blood seeping into the cracks of her frozen heart.
Liana’s nose stung. She gripped the back of his uniform tightly, like clinging to the last driftwood in a storm.
Woooo-
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The train whistle tore through the morning mist.
Miles loosened his embrace, grabbing her suitcase in one hand and intertwining their fingers with the other.
Looking down, his lashes still damp with mountain dew, he murmured,
“It’s time to board.”
Time to go where Adrian Graham no longer existed.
“Okay.”
Her returning squeeze held a quiet, unspoken hope.
The platform buzzed with people like
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migrating birds.
As the engine belched black smoke, hands waved goodbye from all sides.
But inside the sleeper car, they sat quietly, watching the unknown unfold.
Miles suddenly pulled a small silver pendant from his inner pocket–shaped from a bullet casing, engraved inside with 1979.3.21, the date she’d first performed Swan Lake.
“When we get to the border…” he mumbled, ears burning red, “will you make me a necklace for it? I want to wear it close.”
Amid the noise, Liana Langston finally laughed–tears glittering in her eyes.
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