Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte
Isat at my desk, still staring at the empty teacup in front of me, as if the ghost of courage might settle in its dregs. The windows behind me offered a beautiful view of the East River, but I barely saw it. My thoughts were stuck somewhere between shame and frustration, spinning like tires in mud.
“You did what you had to do,” Jamie said, arms crossed as he leaned against the edge of my desk. His voice was low, careful, as if he thought he might break me with the wrong tone. “The speech was from State. You read it. End of story.”
End of story. God, I hated how final that sounded.
I looked up at him. “It was a lie,” I said flatly. “A carefully worded, beautifully polished, State Department-approved lie.”
“You could’ve lost your job.”
“Maybe I should have.” The words were out before I could stop them.
Jamie exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Charlotte…”
“I wish I had half the backbone Katya Romanova has.” My voice cracked slightly, but I didn’t stop.
“She stood up to her entire country. To her president. To her people. She lives with death threats, exile, everything—and she never flinches. She doesn’t cave to protocol or political pressure.
And here I am, hiding behind a teleprompter. ”
Jamie didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, then slowly lifted back to me with a weary sort of understanding.
“That woman,” he said carefully, “is not the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. She answers to nobody.”
I swallowed hard.
“You,” he continued, “are answerable to an exceptionally long list of people. Over three hundred and thirty million, to be exact.”
He said it without cruelty. But it still landed like a gut punch.
I nodded stiffly and looked away, jaw tightening. I hated this—hated knowing he was right. Yes, I was a political appointee. I didn’t make the rules. I followed them, enforced them, put a bow on them and sold them to the world as diplomacy.
The intercom buzzed on my desk.
I pressed the button. “Yes, Mary Ellen?”
“Ambassador, Secretary of State Whitaker is here to see you.”
Jamie straightened. I felt him about to stand.
“Tell him to come in,” I said, without missing a beat. Then I looked at Jamie and raised a hand. “Stay.”
He hesitated. “You sure?”
I nodded once.
The door opened moments later and in walked Secretary Whitaker—every inch of him reeking of power and smugness. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Just took one look at Jamie, then pointed a finger like a man dismissing a waiter.
“Walker. Out.”
Jamie’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. He gave me a quick glance—checking, asking. I nodded. Reluctantly, he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Whitaker took the seat opposite me, settling in like he owned the place. He gave me a grin that made my skin crawl.
That grin—the same one he wore after every successful backroom deal, every time he twisted the truth into political capital. It was an expression that didn’t need words to say, You did exactly what I needed you to do.
I sat up straighter, bracing myself.
Let the games begin.
Whitaker’s grin widened as he settled into the chair across from me, folding one leg over the other like he was about to hold court in his private study, not the office of a United Nations ambassador.
“Well,” he said, smoothing his tie, “that was one hell of a speech.”
I stared at him, unsmiling. “I read the words you gave me.”
He raised an eyebrow, that smug little smile twitching. “Is that so?”
I didn’t blink. “Word for word. As instructed.”
His grin faltered. Just slightly. “Is there a problem, Ambassador?”
My mouth opened before my mind caught up. “Yes,” I said. “There’s a problem. A big one.”
His eyes narrowed.
“We’re doing nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing to address the elephant in the room. Russia—and by extension, Belaruska—are bullies. Dangerous ones. They meddle, they destabilize, they threaten world peace and call it national pride. And we—what are we? A speed bump? A talking point? What happened to us being a wall, an actual wall, holding back tyrants from their loathsome deeds? What happened to being—”
“Enough.”
His voice cracked through the room like a whip. Cold. Sharp.
“You are not in charge of policy, Charlotte.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The contempt was all in the sneer curling on his face. “You are a political appointee. You speak when told, and you say what you’re told to say. That’s it.”
I sat frozen in my chair, a storm of words rising in my throat and dying there. His glare pinned me like a nail to a board. Not a colleague. Not even a subordinate. A liability. A tool to be kept in place or thrown away.
He stood without another word, straightened his blazer, and turned for the door. No, thank you. No goodbye.
Just silence, and the click of his shoes on the hardwood floor.
The door closed behind him.
And I was alone again—with nothing but the bitter taste of complicity burning the back of my throat.
By midafternoon, I was buried under briefing memos, economic projections, and a particularly infuriating internal report about a planned change to the UN cafeteria’s coffee supplier.
Something about eco-sourcing and local vendors.
I didn’t care—I just wanted my espresso to taste like espresso and not roasted bark.
“God,” I muttered, stabbing a red pen into the margin. “If this new blend tastes like compost again, I swear I will set the whole third floor on fire.”
I tossed the pen down and dropped my head into my hands, massaging my temples. “Can this day get any worse?”
The intercom buzzed. I glared at it like it had betrayed me.
“Yes?” I said, pressing the button with a little more force than necessary.
“Ambassador, you have a visitor. Ambassador Karpov is here. He would like a word.”
I groaned aloud. No part of me wanted to see that man. I was half a breath from telling Celeste I couldn’t be disturbed, that I had a meeting, a headache, the flu, anything.
But then it hit me—like ice water down my spine.
Maybe… maybe we were working with Moscow behind the scenes. Maybe that ridiculous speech this morning wasn’t just performative ass-kissing for the press. Perhaps the script I’d been handed was a signal. A handshake. A warning.
And if that were true… pissing off Karpov could be fatal to my already fragile career.
I swallowed my pride—and the bile rising in my throat—then forced a smile so fake it practically cracked my face.
“Send him in.”
A moment later, the door opened, and in slithered Mikhail Ivanovich Karpov, the Russian Ambassador to the United Nations, and the man who haunted my diplomatic nightmares. He was all smiles, his posture relaxed, his eyes sharp and smug as ever.
“Ambassador Tyler,” he said smoothly, “I come bearing gratitude.”
I barely kept from recoiling. “That’s… unexpected.”
He took the seat across from me without invitation, as usual. “Your speech this morning was magnificent. Truly. It’s a comfort to see our two mighty nations finally see eye to eye on something.”
I smiled—thin, tight, plastic. “I’m pleased you think so.”
The words tasted like ash.
Karpov’s smile deepened. “As such, I’ve been authorized to inform you that the Russian Federation is halting all efforts to extradite Ekaterina Romanova back to Moscow.”
My heart slammed into my ribs.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The room blurred at the edges.
Katya. They were backing off Katya.
I wanted to leap to my feet, to scream, to run down the hallway singing Springsteen at the top of my lungs. But instead, I smoothed my blazer and nodded once, the picture of calm diplomacy.
“That’s… unexpected,” I repeated, this time with less poison.
“But welcome, yes?” he asked, eyes glittering.
“Of course.”
I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It couldn’t be the speech—surely not. That empty performance of watered-down moralism hadn’t moved anyone, especially not a man like Karpov. So why now? Why let Katya go?
Maybe she didn’t matter to them anymore. Maybe they thought we would bend and Katya was just a pawn they no longer needed.
Karpov crossed one leg over the other and launched into a self-satisfied lecture about Eastern European sovereignty, the historical importance of regional autonomy, the Monroe Doctrine, and why Moscow’s influence in its “natural hemisphere” was not unlike Washington’s in Latin America.
I nodded at all the right places. Took notes, even. But inside my mind was a kaleidoscope of emotion—relief, suspicion, elation, and something like grief.
Katya was safe. At least, for now.
And I still had to sit here and pretend to agree with a man who made my skin crawl.
Eventually, the old bastard stood, brushing invisible lint from his lapel. “I think we understand each other, Ambassador.”
I stood as well, stepping out from behind my desk and extending my hand. “Of course. I appreciate your visit.”
He took my hand—and then pulled me in, planting dry kisses on both cheeks.
Nausea rolled up my spine.
“Until next time,” he said, voice silk and smugness.
I nodded, already imagining the scalding hot shower I’d take the moment I got home.
He turned and left.
As soon as the door closed behind Karpov, I reached for the secure line on my desk and dialed the direct contact I had for the UNHCR liaison office here in New York. My fingers trembled slightly on the keypad.
“UNHCR liaison desk, this is Maria Alvarez.”
“This is Ambassador Charlotte Tyler. I need to speak with you regarding Ekaterina Romanova. It’s urgent.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a quiet rustle of papers. “Yes, Ambassador. One moment.”
The line clicked softly and then Maria came back, voice focused. “I’m listening.”
I swallowed. “I just concluded a meeting with Ambassador Karpov. He informed me—formally—that the Russian Federation is no longer pursuing the extradition of Ms. Romanova. He stated they are halting all efforts to bring her back to Russia.”
Silence. Then, a sharp inhale.
“I… see,” Maria said carefully. “That’s very surprising.”
“It surprised me, too,” I admitted.
Another pause.
“Ambassador, while we appreciate this update, we haven’t received any official communication from Moscow confirming that change in policy. Until we do, we will continue to keep Ms. Romanova under full protection, as previously arranged.”
“Of course. I just thought you should hear it from me first.”
“I appreciate that. We’ll reach out to the Russian Mission immediately and begin verifying his claims.”
“Thank you, Maria.”
We exchanged quick formalities, and the line went dead.
I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers under my chin. My eyes drifted to the window, to the vast city beyond it. It was still too early to feel relief. Too dangerous to trust Karpov’s feral smile.
But I prayed—silently, fiercely—that he’d been telling the truth. That Katya was no longer in danger of being dragged back to the country that hunted her.
I reached into my drawer and pulled out my personal phone, then I opened our text thread and typed.
Katya, I’ve got wonderful news. Can we meet for dinner?