Chapter 3 #3
My heart climbed into my throat. Fuck. “ That’s the story that’s about to hit the headlines? Human trafficking?”
Sutton nodded slowly. “Human sex trafficking. Right here in Vegas. Imagine that,” he said with a grim twist to his mouth.
I understood exactly what he meant. Las Vegas sold fantasy in bright lights and flashy attractions, but I’d spent years seeing the rot beneath the neon.
Behind the casinos, the clubs, and the pretty tourist postcards was an underbelly built on desperation, addiction, violence, and people who knew how to profit from all three.
I’d worked enough cases to know trafficking wasn’t some distant horror that happened somewhere else.
It lived here. Hid in plain sight. And every time we’d shut one operation down, another crawled out of the dark to take its place.
I flipped to the next page and my jaw tightened.
Vincent Calloway’s face stared up at me from a glossy photograph. Silver-haired, distinguished, with the kind of practiced smile that looked great in campaign photos and charity gala coverage. I knew that face. Everyone in Vegas who was anyone knew those features.
Calloway was one of the city’s most prominent businessmen.
Real estate, mostly, but he had his fingers in a dozen different pies.
He was a major contributor to police charity funds and a regular at political fundraisers.
There was a wing at the children’s hospital with his name on a bronze plaque because of how much money he’d donated.
The philanthropist. The pillar of the community. The untouchable.
I was certain it was all a fucking ruse.
I looked up from the photo, meeting Sutton’s gaze. “She thinks Calloway is behind it?”
Sutton nodded. “She’s convinced he’s running the entire sex trafficking operation.”
I let out a low whistle, leaning back in my chair as the implications sank in.
Going after Vincent Calloway wasn’t just ambitious—it was borderline suicidal.
The man had enough money to buy silence, enough connections to bury anyone who crossed him, and enough public goodwill to make any accuser look like a conspiracy theorist. “That’s not going to make her any friends. ”
“She told me she’s not really the type to make friends,” Sutton replied drily.
“So she needs protection.” I tapped my finger against the edge of the file. “And the police won’t touch the case, or any potential threat to her, because there hasn’t been any physical altercation. Yet.”
It wasn’t a question—it was a statement of cold, hard fact.
If Calloway was dirty—and I’d always suspected he was—he’d have half the department on his payroll. Men like him didn’t operate at that level without insurance, without knowing exactly which palms to grease and which skeletons to leverage for his own gain.
Writing a story like this, and targeting a man like that ?
The journalist would be lucky if the cops just ignored her.
More likely they’d actively work to discredit her, bury her sources, launch “investigations” designed to intimidate rather than illuminate.
They’d make her life hell until she gave up, backed down, or ended up like her murdered informant—a cautionary tale whispered about in newsrooms but never printed.
I knew how that machinery worked. I’d seen it from the inside.
This was exactly the kind of case I’d dreamed about when I’d first joined the force, back when I’d been naive enough to believe the badge meant something.
The kind that let you take down someone powerful who thought they were untouchable, who operated above the law because they’d bought everyone responsible for enforcing it.
The kind of case that reminded you why you’d signed up to be a cop in the first place.
And it was exactly the kind of case that had gotten me destroyed when I’d stumbled too close to something someone wanted kept quiet.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I pushed those thoughts aside, forcing myself to focus on the case in front of me rather than the ghosts behind me. Right now, there was a woman in danger and a job to do.
“What’s the goal?” I asked. “Get her safely out of Vegas until things cool down?”
“She refuses to leave.” Sutton’s tone suggested he’d already tried that argument and lost. “She insists she just needs protection until she finishes her investigation and can make everything public. Get the story out there, let the court of public opinion do what the justice system won’t.”
That took serious courage. Or serious stupidity. Sometimes the line between the two was razor-thin, and you didn’t find out which side you’d landed on until it was too late.
“And what do you think?” I asked.
Sutton considered the question for a moment before answering, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“I believe we have an obligation to support the cause of justice whenever possible. That’s the foundation this company was built on—providing safety and recourse to people who can’t access it through normal channels, like the police.
” He paused, his expression hardening slightly.
“That said, I also believe there are times when the cost outweighs the cause. I’m trusting you to recognize when that line has been crossed and to extract her, or sequester her in one of our safehouses—with or without her cooperation. ”
I had no issues with that. “Understood.”
“Good.” He nodded toward the file. “Her information is in there. Background, current address, known associates, threat assessment—the works. She’s waiting in the conference room now, so as soon as you’ve reviewed the details, I’ll make the introduction.”
I flipped through the remaining pages, my eyes scanning the documentation.
Safehouse locations—three options, all within driving distance but remote enough to provide cover.
Threat assessments—level high, with specific notes about Calloway’s known associates and their various skill sets.
Communication protocols—encrypted channels, check-in schedules, emergency extraction procedures.
It was thorough. Professional. Exactly what I’d expect from Noble and Associates and Tate’s skill as a tech expert.
And then I turned to the page with the client’s personal information. A photocopy of a driver’s license stared up at me, along with the woman’s face.
The world stopped.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was surprised Sutton couldn’t hear it. The blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything—the hum of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of voices from the bullpen, the sound of my own breathing.
I knew that face.
I knew those eyes—blue and sharp and full of a defiance that had once made me want to conquer her completely.
I knew that auburn hair, those full lips, the stubborn set of that jaw.
I knew the way that face looked flushed with pleasure, knew the sounds that mouth could make when she orgasmed, knew exactly how those eyes had looked when they’d gazed up at me with trust and desire and something that had felt like so much more.
Charlotte Massey.
The woman I’d once held in my arms and imagined a future with. The woman I’d planned to take to dinner, to learn everything about and build a real relationship with.
Also known by her byline as C. Massey—the journalist who had written the exposé that destroyed my career.
Whose story had splashed my name across every news outlet in the city, painting me as the face of police corruption.
Who had taken every hope I’d foolishly allowed myself to feel and ground it into dust beneath her heel without a backward glance.
The woman who had ruined my life.
My pulse thundered in my ears, so loud I could barely think.
Two years of carefully constructed walls, two years of burying the memories so deep I’d almost convinced myself they didn’t exist, and now here she was, staring up at me from a goddamn driver’s license photo, looking exactly the same as she had the last time I’d seen her.
The last time I’d seen her . In the club, curled in my lap, making plans for a future that would never happen. Next Saturday , she’d said. It’s a date.
Three days later, her story broke. And my entire life came crashing down around me.
I’d never gotten the chance to ask her why.
Never had the opportunity to confront her, to demand answers, to understand how the woman who’d trembled in my arms and called me sir could be the same woman who’d written those words.
Had she known the whole time? Had every touch, every kiss, every moment of connection been a performance?
A way to get close to me, to gather information, to use me for her story?
I’d told myself it didn’t matter. That she was just another person who’d betrayed me, no different from the colleagues who’d turned their backs on me.
That the brief, bright thing I’d thought we were building between us had been nothing but smoke and mirrors, and I was a fool for ever believing otherwise.
But sitting here now, holding her file in my hands, I realized I’d been lying to myself.
It mattered. God help me, it still fucking mattered.
And now she was my client.
Sutton clearly had no idea who she was—not really.
He’d read the articles written about me, but C.
Massey had been nothing more than a byline to him, a name attached to a story he’d skimmed two years ago and promptly forgotten.
Why would it mean anything to him? He’d seen the news coverage about me, sure.
Everyone had. But the name of the journalist who’d written the article wouldn’t have registered, wouldn’t have stuck.
It was just another scandal in a city built on them.
It only stood out to me because when my life had imploded, I’d made it my mission to know exactly who was responsible.
I’d memorized that byline. Burned it into my memory alongside the names of every colleague who’d refused to meet my eyes, every so-called friend who’d suddenly become too busy to return my calls.
C. Massey. Charlotte Massey. The woman who’d lit the match and watched me burn.
I hadn’t known her last name until then.
“Kane?” Sutton’s voice cut through the roaring in my ears. “Is there a problem?”
I looked up at him, and I knew my face gave nothing away.
Years of interrogation training had taught me how to lock down my expressions when I needed to, how to keep my features perfectly neutral even when everything inside me was screaming.
But beneath that mask, I was burning. Rage and betrayal and something else I refused to name churned in my gut like acid.
“No problem,” I heard myself say. “I’ll take the case.”
The words came out steady. Calm. Professional. As if I weren’t agreeing to spend days—maybe weeks—in close proximity to the woman who haunted my worst memories.
But what choice did I have? If I refused, Sutton would want to know why.
And the truth—that I’d once fucked our new client in a BDSM club, that I’d been stupid enough to develop feelings for her, that she’d subsequently destroyed my career and I still didn’t know if it had all been calculated from the start—wasn’t exactly something I could explain without sounding like a goddamn liability.
Besides, someone had to protect her. The threat and danger was real. Whatever she’d done to me, she didn’t deserve to end up like her source, beaten beyond recognition and left for the coroner to puzzle over. No one deserved that.
And maybe—just maybe—this was the universe’s way of giving me the opportunity to finally get the answers I’d never gotten. The confrontation I’d never had. The chance to look her in the eye and finally understand why .
Sutton studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw more than I wanted him to. The man had spent decades reading people, assessing threats, detecting lies. If anyone could see through my carefully constructed neutrality, it was him.
But whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
“Good,” he finally said.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil—or perhaps just choosing not to acknowledge it—Sutton stood, and I followed suit. Tucking the file under my arm, I walked out of his office toward the conference room on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
Charlotte Massey. The woman who’d destroyed me was now under my protection.
And God help us both, because I had no idea how I was supposed to guard someone I still wanted to strangle—or how to reconcile that fury with the traitorous part of me that remembered exactly how she’d felt in my arms, how she’d tasted, how she’d looked when she’d shattered beneath my hands and around my cock.
Some wounds never fully healed. They just scarred over, hiding the damage beneath layers of scar tissue until you almost forgot they were there.
But the moment you touched them again, the pain came back and you remembered everything.