My Boss Never Lets Anyone Touch Him, But For This Heist, We Have to Pretend We're Married

The man sweating in the chair opposite Kaz’s desk was new money, and it showed. His coat was expensive but poorly fitted, his hands were soft, and his fear scented the air in the crow-haunted office, a thick, cloying perfume of desperation. Kaz remained perfectly still behind the expanse of stained mahogany, his gloved hands resting flat on the surface. He let the silence stretch, watching the man, Per Haskell’s latest errand boy, squirm.

“He is a ghost, Mr. Brekker,” the man finally stammered, his eyes darting toward the shadows in the corners of the room. “Maartin Vos. He hasn’t left his manor on the Geldstraat in five years.”

Kaz said nothing. He already knew of Vos. A financier who had appeared from nowhere, accumulating immense wealth by managing the dirty money of Ketterdam’s merchant council and rival gangs alike. A man with a ledger that could burn the city’s elite to the ground. A prize of unimaginable value.

“The job is to acquire his ledger,” the man continued, gaining a sliver of confidence. “Proof of payment is guaranteed. The advance alone is enough to buy this entire district.”

Kaz’s gaze remained flat, unimpressed. There was always a catch. “Why come to me?”

“Because no one else can get inside. The manor is a fortress. Guards, traps… He’s paranoid. But he has a weakness. A single point of access.” The man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He still conducts business, but only in person. And only with a very specific type of client.”

Kaz waited, his patience a weapon.

“Couples,” the man said, as if revealing a state secret. “Established, wealthy, married couples. He hosts private soirees, small gatherings where he vets new partners. He believes… he believes a couple is more stable. That they have more to lose. That they are a better investment.”

A flicker of something—not quite amusement, but a sharp, predatory interest—stirred behind Kaz’s dark eyes. The sheer absurdity of the requirement was an insult to the logic of the Barrel, and therefore, it was a lock he was suddenly desperate to pick. A man who built his empire on secrets and betrayal was looking for stability in the most notoriously unstable of human contracts. It was a flaw. A beautiful, exploitable flaw.

“He sees single operators as a threat. Too unpredictable,” the man added, mistaking Kaz’s silence for skepticism. “But a husband and wife, presenting a united front… them, he will let inside his gilded cage.”

Kaz’s mind was already moving, calculating angles and possibilities, the plan assembling itself piece by brutal piece. The risk was immense, the security of the manor legendary. But the entry point was not a door or a window. It was a performance. A lie that had to be lived, breathed, and sold to a man who specialized in sniffing out deceit. It would require more than just skill and nerve. It would require a partner who could move without a sound, who could wear a lie as easily as she wore her knives. A partner who could stand beside him and make the impossible seem plausible.

His gaze drifted to the window, toward the rooftops of the Slat where his Wraith kept watch. There was only one person.

He dismissed the man without another word and ascended the rickety stairs of the Slat, his leg protesting with a familiar ache. He didn't need to announce himself. She was always aware of his approach, a ghost attuned to the presence of her king. He found her in her attic room, perched on the wide windowsill, her back to the grimy rooftops of the city. She didn't turn as he entered, her stillness a silent question.

Kaz stopped in the center of the room, the space that felt more like his than his own office ever did. “There’s a new job. Maartin Vos.”

Inej’s head tilted slightly, the only acknowledgment he needed. She knew the name. Everyone knew the name.

“He keeps a ledger. A complete record of every dirty kruge laundered through the Geldstraat for the past five years,” Kaz continued, his voice the same flat, business-like tone he used to order a kill or a shipment of rifles. “The pay is enough to secure our position for a decade. The information is worth even more.”

He watched the line of her spine, waiting. She finally turned, her dark eyes finding his across the small room. “His manor is a myth, Kaz. No one gets in.”

“There is a way,” he said. “He hosts small, private soirees for potential clients. That is our point of entry.” He let the statement hang in the air before delivering the final, crucial detail. “Vos has a peculiar requirement for his business partners. He only deals with established, married couples.”

The silence that followed was different. It was not the comfortable quiet they often shared, but a sudden, sharp vacuum. The air seemed to thin, crackling with a new and unfamiliar tension. Inej’s gaze did not waver, but something in her expression shifted, a careful mask sliding into place over a flicker of shock.

“A married couple,” she repeated, her voice soft, yet it carried the weight of a dropped stone. It was not a question. It was a clarification of an unbelievable fact.

“A wealthy merchant and his wife from Belendt, looking for a new investment portfolio,” Kaz elaborated, his tone clipped, all business. “It’s a simple cover. A role to play for an evening.”

But Inej saw it for what it was. It wasn’t simple. It was the most complicated thing he had ever asked of her. This wasn’t about scaling a wall or retrieving an object. It was a performance of intimacy, a charade that would require them to stand closer than they ever had, to touch, to feign an affection that was a dangerously twisted reflection of the real, unspoken thing that lived between them. It was a proximity he had spent years avoiding, a boundary he had enforced with brutal finality.

Her stomach tightened. To convince a man like Vos, the act would have to be seamless. It would require casual touches, shared glances, the easy familiarity of two people whose lives were intertwined. It would require them to lie with their bodies, and the lie felt far too close to a truth she had buried deep within herself.

“And you believe we can be convincing?” she asked, her voice still quiet, but the challenge in it was unmistakable. It was a test, and not of her skills as a spy. It was a test of his understanding of what, precisely, he was demanding.

“We will be,” Kaz stated, his voice devoid of any doubt. It was not a reassurance; it was a command. He turned without another word, leaving her alone with the weight of it.

The planning session was held in the cramped, smoky back room of the Crow Club. The core crew was assembled around a table littered with maps of the Geldstraat and crude sketches of the Vos manor’s facade. Jesper was spinning a pistol around his finger, Nina was filing her nails with a bored expression, and Wylan was hunched over a diagram, looking nervous.

Kaz stood at the head of the table, his crow-headed cane planted firmly on the floorboards. He laid out the job with his usual cold precision—the target, the payout, the formidable security. He detailed the entry plan, his voice a low monotone that commanded absolute attention.

“The entry point is a private soiree,” Kaz explained, tapping a gloved finger on the manor’s grand ballroom. “Vos only vets new clients in person. He has a preference.” He paused, his dark eyes sweeping over their faces. “He only deals with married couples.”

A beat of silence, then Jesper’s pistol stopped spinning. He let out a low whistle. “Married couples? Saints. Does he ask to see the certificate?”

“He asks to see stability,” Kaz countered, his voice flat. “He believes a husband and wife present a united, trustworthy front. It’s a flaw in his logic, and it’s our way in.”

“So who’s playing house?” Nina asked, leaning forward with sudden interest, her eyes flicking between them all.

Kaz’s gaze settled on Inej, who stood slightly apart from the group, a shadow near the wall. “I will go as the husband. Inej will be my wife.”

The declaration landed in the room with a thud. Wylan looked down at his papers, his cheeks flushing. Nina’s eyebrows shot up. But it was Jesper who broke the loaded silence, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his face.

“Well, it’s about time,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “All that intense staring across the rooftops finally gets a proper stage. Maybe you can skip the rehearsal.”

The air went cold.

Kaz didn’t move, but a terrible stillness seized him. The leather of his gloves creaked as his hands tightened into fists, one on the table, the other on the head of his cane. His jaw was a hard line, his face a mask of fury so profound it was utterly silent. His eyes, fixed on Jesper, became flat, dead things, promising violence.

Inej flinched as if struck. The color drained from her face, leaving her skin the color of parchment. She retreated a half-step back, melting deeper into the shadows as if hoping the wall would absorb her. Her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze dropping to the floor. She looked small, exposed, every ounce of her formidable grace vanishing into a posture of pure self-preservation. The easy confidence she held on the rooftops was gone, replaced by the ghost of a girl from the Menagerie, caught under a gaze she did not want.

Jesper’s grin evaporated, the humor dying instantly. He saw what he had done. The casual joke had not landed on the thick armor they both wore for the world; it had slipped through the cracks and struck something raw and unprotected. The silence stretched, thick with embarrassment and a sudden, shared understanding of the impossibility of the task. If a single jest could shatter them like this, how could they possibly sell a lie of love and partnership for an entire night?

“Focus, Fahey,” Kaz finally bit out, his voice a blade of ice that cut through the tension. “Or I’ll find a use for your tongue that doesn’t involve speaking.” He turned his attention back to the map, but the moment lingered, a toxic cloud that poisoned the air in the room. The heist was no longer just about a ledger; it was about surviving the performance.