Contract Marriage with My Secret Partner in Crime-Chapter 70: Perfect Cover

Kendrick stepped out of the tinted van that dropped him off a block away from his art studio. His eyes scanned the area, his hand adjusting the black cap on his head as he slowly took in the scene.

The sidewalks were relatively clear, the corner café had its usual three morning regulars sipping coffee, and the small convenience store across the street had no unusual activity.

Most importantly, there were no reporters loitering nearby, no flashing cameras, and no mic-wielding strangers waiting to shove questions at his face.

"Looks like they finally got tired," he muttered under his breath.

Still cautious, he kept his head down and took the side alley entrance. The studio door creaked open, the scent of dried paint and turpentine welcoming him like an old friend. Once inside, he sighed in relief and quickly locked the door behind him.

Sunlight filtered through the wide windows of the studio, casting a soft glow over canvases stacked against the walls. Some were covered with cloth; others were mid-progress, paint drying in uneven textures. Kendrick dropped his bag by the couch and glanced around.

Unfinished commissions stared back at him. He had promised at least two clients their paintings would be done before the end of the month.

And even though he knew he could finish them in less than a day if he really tried, truthfully, painting wasn’t his priority right now.

Missions were.

Being Obscura wasn’t something he could set aside. And after that last stunt, The Archive had gone silent—but he knew it was only temporary.

Even when he scrolled through the missions tab on The Archive, no assignments for levels 1 to 4 appeared. There were simply no missions to accept.

Snapping back to his senses, he chuckled softly. Of course, his mother still thought this was how he made his money—selling art, getting praised for a "gift" he barely cared about anymore.

"If only she knew I already have more zeroes in my bank account than a lottery winner," he murmured, pulling the cloth off one of the canvases.

Painting was the perfect cover. It gave him flexible time. It explained the occasional isolation. It also gave his mom something to brag about to her friends. And when Christy was happy, life had a certain peace to it.

He stretched his arms and walked to the couch, flopping down onto it.

"Finally, a day of peace. No missions. No reporters. Just silence."

His body relaxed. He could almost nap.

Knock knock.

His head snapped toward the door.

"Already?" he groaned, pulling himself up. "Must be the supplier."

He casually walked to the door and unlocked it.

The moment the door swung open, a flurry of movement exploded in front of him.

"Mr. Kendrick! I’ve been dying to get a portrait done!"

"Please, just one quick sketch, even a signature would do!"

"My daughter loves your work! Can you make a painting for her birthday?"

He stumbled back as at least seven people pushed their way inside, waving sketchbooks, reference photos, even a small dog someone apparently wanted him to paint. His hands tried to motion for them to stop, but it was too late. They were inside, roaming around, marveling at the canvases.

"Wait, no—please, this is a private space—" Kendrick tried, but his voice was lost in the excited chatter.

Internally, he screamed.

I don’t need this! I really don’t need this!

He already had enough distractions. He only accepted two painting requests a month for a reason. If word got out that he was taking more, it would ruin his schedule, his balance—and his cover might even start cracking.

"Alright, enough!" he snapped.

The room fell silent. Every head turned toward him.

Gone was the kind, gentle artist. In his place was someone... colder. Still. His eyes, no longer soft, narrowed into something sharper. Dangerous.

The air shifted.

No one said a word.

"Out," Kendrick said, his voice low and firm.

And just like that, one by one, the people began shuffling toward the door, murmuring apologies, clutching their belongings. The once-busy room was soon quiet again, door closing behind the last person with a click.

He locked it. Twice.

Then he turned, walked straight to the couch, and dropped into it.

His head leaned back, eyes closing.

"What a mess," he muttered. "I really don’t need this attention."

He sat in silence for a while, mind drifting. Then it landed on someone—Zephany.

She must be having it worse.

She might be swarmed by reporters, being asked questions she didn’t know how to answer.

He frowned.

He should’ve gone with her. Protected her. Even if they were just acting as husband and wife for the contract’s sake, she didn’t deserve to face that alone.

His thoughts spiraled deeper until—

Ding.

His phone vibrated on the side table.

He grabbed it.

His eyes widened.

Zephany.

Zephany: Ken.. how are you? Did any reporters go to your place?

His lips parted, a breath catching in his chest.

He hadn’t expected a message. Not this soon. And especially not this soft, simple concern. A small smile crept onto his face without him realizing. There was warmth in her words. Concern.

The thought of her sitting at her desk, probably biting her lip and nervously typing that message, somehow made his chest feel light.

Kendrick: I’m okay. No reporters here. It’s quiet. Don’t worry about me. Are you alright?

He stared at the screen for a moment, still smiling.

Maybe this whole pretending-to-be-married thing wasn’t so bad after all.

Then—

Buzz.

Another message. This time, from an unknown number.

He frowned.

Unknown Number: This is Reynold, Zephany’s older brother. I need to talk with you.

Kendrick blinked.

His smile disappeared.

He sat up straighter, the phone gripped a little tighter now.

Interrogation mode: activated, he thought, gulping.

He had read the files. Reynold was no ordinary guy. Elusive, always traveling, barely seen in public—but fiercely protective of his sister. Zephany never talked much about him, just said he was always away, working. But Kendrick knew better.

He stared at the message for a while, unsure if he should respond immediately or prepare first.

Maybe it was time to dust off some old agent instincts.

This wasn’t going to be just a casual chat.

This was the older brother talk.

And Kendrick had a feeling it was going to be anything but easy.