For as long as I’d known of my preference for men, I’d understood myself as a kind of slowly unfolding tragedy. I might fuck and dally and even love in secret, but there could be no true future in any of it, not really. Being openly married to Cae felt surreal at the best of times, as though I was perpetually one wrong move away from ruining everything. So when I’d learned of the assassin, a part of me had simply accepted it as inevitable—the universe course-correcting against the possibility of my happiness—and I, without even realising, had resigned myself to it.
