Chapter 3
C harleston was already sweating before I was.
The air wrapped itself around my shoulders the second I stepped outside, warm and clinging.
Summer mornings here had a way of feeling both sleepy and swollen—too quiet, too bright. The city glowed in that syrupy golden way tourists romanticized, but for locals, it meant one thing: another day of enduring beauty while your skin stuck to itself.
I unlocked my bike from the wrought-iron railing in front of my townhouse and tossed my satchel over one shoulder. The leather stuck to the back of my blouse immediately. I was already cursing by the time I made it two blocks.
Charleston was a paradox—pastel and blood-soaked.
The streets were cobbled with history, some of it picturesque, most of it rotting beneath the surface.
Horse-drawn carriages clopped along King Street like a commercial for Southern charm, while gentrified espresso shops offered $18 pour-overs in the same neighborhoods where Black families had been priced out of their generational homes.
The city smiled through its teeth.
And I smiled right back.
I turned onto Calhoun and pedaled past Marion Square.
A handful of vendors were already setting up beneath tents for the farmers market that would open in a few hours.
Sunlight bounced off the glass windows of The Dewberry, and somewhere to my left, a student was playing violin on the corner for tips.
Her case lay open, a few ones fluttering in the breeze.
A violin, I thought, in this heat. Jesus.
By the time I got to Broad, my hair had curled at the roots and sweat was blooming down my spine. I wore my usual summer armor—linen button-down, high-waisted trousers, and dark sunglasses to hide the fatigue under my eyes. I looked put-together enough. Polished. Intentional.
A walking contradiction in 90-degree heat.
Just before East Bay, I locked up the bike outside the co-working space, took a long pull from my aluminum water bottle, and forced myself to breathe like I hadn’t spent the night masturbating to a fantasy man and rejecting my ex-boyfriend in the same hour.
The lobby was cool, mercifully. Wide windows let in too much light, but the AC made up for it.
A coffee bar in the corner steamed and hissed.
People in muted blazers and oversized headphones passed through with mission-driven urgency.
Every other laptop bore a sticker that said something like Make Art Not Algorithms or Decolonize Everything .
The receptionist, Jade, greeted me with a tight smile. “Morning, Zara. ”
“Morning.” I flashed her one back, less tight but equally hollow.
I made my way upstairs to the second floor, where my regular table sat beneath an arched window overlooking the harbor.
On a clear day you could see all the way to Fort Sumter, a reminder that this city had once fired the first shot of a war it still hadn’t stopped waging in spirit.
The military presence here wasn’t just history—it still pulsed quietly beneath the surface.
Navy officers in uniform grabbing lunch downtown.
Retired generals sitting on nonprofit boards. Soldiers returning to old ghosts.
I took my laptop out, placed my notebook beside it, and opened a fresh document.
The cursor blinked.
So did I.
What kind of man wants a woman like me?
The thought slid in like sweat beneath a collar—familiar, irritating, impossible to ignore.
I typed The New Language of Militarized Recruitment as a working title and tried to focus. I had research pulled, quotes flagged, a three-point thesis outlined in my notes. I knew what I wanted to say. I always did.
But all I could think about was him.
Or the idea of him.
The man I’d written for. The man I’d summoned with that letter. The man who might still be out there, reading it.
Judging it.
Planning his next move.
“You look like you’ve been arguing with yourself all morning.”
I startled at the voice behind me.
Mina .
She dropped into the seat across from me with an iced oat latte in one hand and a vibe like she hadn’t ever second-guessed herself a day in her life.
Her jumpsuit was the color of rust and clung to her in all the right places.
A thin gold chain disappeared into her cleavage. She wore no bra and didn’t care.
I lifted my sunglasses and gave her a long, flat stare. “Do you just appear whenever I start spiraling, or is this cosmic punishment?”
“Spiraling?” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Oh, my God. You heard something, didn’t you? About the?—”
“I didn’t say anything.” I glanced around, lowered my voice. “And we don’t say the name out loud.”
Mina rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “Relax. This place is full of data journalists and freelance UX witches. They’re all too busy trying to figure out how to ethically monetize their TikToks.”
I gave her a look.
She smirked. “Okay, fine. But tell me something happened. You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweating.”
“No. That’s post-orgasm glow. Don’t lie to me.”
I pressed my lips together and stared out the window.
Mina was the only person who knew about the letter. She hadn’t asked to be. I’d called her the night I sent it and immediately regretted it, but she’d just laughed, told me to hydrate, and promised I wouldn’t die.
She’d been different since her own experience.
Still loud. Still a policy nerd with razor-sharp instincts and a sticker on her laptop that said Punch Nazis in the Face .
But she’d loosened. Her shoulders didn’t live up near her ears anymore.
She spoke slower. Less like she was trying to win something .
It was like part of her had been claimed.
And she’d liked it.
I hated how badly I wanted to understand that.
Mina took another sip of her latte, watching me like she was waiting for the confession I hadn’t decided to give.
“Nothing happened,” I said. “Just … insomnia and poor life choices.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So, foreplay, basically.”
I gave her a look. “Are you always like this in the morning?”
“Only with women who’ve clearly done something depraved and are trying to disguise it.” She leaned back, crossing her legs under the table. “Seriously. You’ve got that look. Like your brain’s still in cuffs.”
And that was what scared me now.
Because what if I’d invited someone into my life—a stranger, no less—who didn’t see that line at all?
What if this man wasn’t just a dominant fantasy?
What if he was actually dangerous?
“Earth to Zara.”
I blinked and looked up. Mina was watching me with narrowed eyes and an irritating grin.
“Jesus,” she said. “What kind of letter did you write?”
“The kind I probably shouldn’t have.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Good. Then maybe you’ll finally get somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
“You know. Out of your head. Off of that high horse you keep parked in your living room.”
I snorted. “You mean my moral integrity?”
“I mean your crippling overanalysis of everything remotely hot. Your martyrdom. Your need to turn every instinct into a think piece.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it again.
Because I knew she was right.
Mina had always been good at slicing through the part of me I tried to keep protected—the part that did want. That did ache. That wasn’t interested in politics, only pleasure.
The part I was terrified would destroy everything I’d built if I let it out.
I looked back at my screen. The blinking cursor had stopped feeling like a challenge and started feeling like a dare.
Say what you want , it whispered.
Admit it.
But I wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
A sudden shift in tone from the muted TV across the room caught both our attention.
The co-working space always had the news on—silent, subtitles rolling, more backdrop than broadcast. But the banner across the screen this time was bold and urgent:
brEAKING: University Administrator Found Dead in Alleged Home Invasion.
I glanced up, half-distracted, but my stomach clenched when I read the smaller subtext beneath it:
Charles Redmond, 61, former Chancellor of Southeastern Christian University, shot and killed last night in what authorities are calling a targeted home invasion.
The screen flashed images: a tall metal gate, blue lights washing over a manicured lawn, the kind of massive brick house that always had a name instead of a number. Redmond Estate , the caption said .
A photo followed—him, smiling for a faculty headshot. Salt-and-pepper hair. Wire-rim glasses. A suit and tie that looked like it had been pressed by someone else.
Mina exhaled. “Damn. I know that name.”
I did, too. Unfortunately.
Charles Redmond had spent over two decades shaping policy and culture at one of the most aggressively conservative private universities in the South.
He’d testified in support of anti-LGBTQ legislation.
Had once published a widely circulated op-ed declaring feminism a “cancer” on Christian society.
He’d silenced assault victims. Personally signed off on the firing of pregnant faculty who weren’t married.
And despite all that—or maybe because of it—he’d been elevated to near-mythic status in certain circles.
I’d written about him. More than once. And I hadn’t pulled punches.
Still, the headline made my mouth taste like rust.
“God,” I muttered. “Someone really shot him?”
Mina raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I’m ... disturbed.”
“But not sad?”
I didn’t answer.
Because wasn’t that the question? Could you despise a man—everything he stood for—and still believe he deserved to live?
Yes. My answer was still yes. Because killing was never the answer. That was my line, and I’d held it tight for as long as I could remember.
Even now, as the news anchor rehashed the details—single gunshot, no sign of forced entry, no known suspects—I felt the same familiar heat rising behind my ribs. Not grief. Not sympathy. Rage .
Not at the killer.
At the story.
At how it would be shaped. Sold. Sanitized.