Chapter 5 #2
But journalists were different. Journalists had colleagues and editors and digital footprints of their investigation.
You couldn’t just make a journalist disappear without raising exactly the kind of questions you were trying to avoid.
The smart play was surveillance first—figure out what they knew, who they’d told, how much damage they could do.
Plant devices in the apartment, clone their devices, and monitor communications.
Gather intelligence before taking action.
If Calloway’s people weren’t bothering with that, it meant they’d already decided on their course of action. And I didn’t think that course of action was live and let live .
“No hidden mics,” I confirmed, straightening from where I’d been checking beneath the coffee table.
“Told you.” Charlotte’s arms were still folded, her expression triumphant.
I crossed to the windows and studied the view, cataloging sight lines, identifying potential sniper positions on the buildings across the street.
“We have to assume the worst. I’m ordering you some UV gels.
I want them installed on every window, and I want these curtains closed as much as possible. ”
“UV gels?”
I turned around to look at her, seeing the confusion on her face.
“They’re a reflective film that goes over glass.
The outside surface acts like a mirror, and the inside is tinted.
They’re marketed for UV protection, but for our purposes, they’ll make it significantly harder for anyone to get a clean line of sight into your apartment.
Harder to shoot you in the head if they can’t see where it is. ”
Charlotte blinked. “Wow. Don’t sugarcoat it or anything. I’d hate for you to accidentally soften the message and ease me gently into the possibility of being assassinated.”
Her tone was dry and sharp, edged with the kind of acerbic wit I hadn’t encountered at the club.
At The Players Club, Charlotte had been eager to submit.
Challenging, yes—she’d made me work for every moment of her surrender—but there had been a softness to her beneath the defiance.
A vulnerability she’d trusted me to see.
This version of Charlotte was all edges. Hard and guarded, with walls so high I couldn’t even see over them. Not surprising, considering my own defenses were no less fortified.
I couldn’t help but wonder which version was real. Was the woman I’d known at the club a persona she adopted when she wanted to let go? Or was this razor-sharp journalist the armor she wore to survive in a world that didn’t reward vulnerability?
And why did I even fucking care? Why was I standing here cataloging the differences, trying to reconcile the woman who’d submitted so beautifully beneath my hands with the one who was currently glaring at me like I was personally offensive to her.
Because you’re an idiot , I told myself savagely. Because some part of you still hasn’t learned your lesson when it comes to this woman.
But God help me, her attitude was... not unattractive.
The way she lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
The flash of fire in those blue eyes. I could easily picture her going toe-to-toe with some corporate asshole or a hostile interviewee, refusing to back down until she got what she came for.
It was the same fire that had drawn me to her in the first place. The same stubbornness that had made her submission so intoxicating—knowing that this fierce, independent woman was choosing to give me her control, choosing to trust me with her vulnerability…
Stop it. I wasn’t supposed to be impressed by her.
That same cutthroat determination was what had led her to publish a story that destroyed my life without a second thought.
She’d had no qualms about writing me off as guilty, no hesitation about adding my name to the list of corrupt cops she was exposing to the world.
I shouldn’t respect it, or her. Shouldn’t find anything about her intriguing. Shouldn’t still want to pin her against the nearest wall and kiss that rebellious expression off her face before I fucked the defiance out of her.
“So what exactly am I allowed to do here?” Charlotte demanded, cutting through my inappropriate thoughts. “Can I leave my apartment with you as my bodyguard, or am I just supposed to sit here twiddling my thumbs until you’ve dispatched all the assassins sent my way?”
“I wouldn’t advise going out.”
Her lips pursed. “At all?”
“ At all ,” I repeated firmly.
Usually, even with high-risk clients, we could allow some level of normal activity—trips to work, social engagements, the basic rhythms of daily life. It was just a matter of keeping close watch, maintaining check-ins, staying alert to threats.
But Charlotte’s situation was different. Ruth’s murder had been brutal, deliberate, designed to send a message. Whoever was protecting Calloway’s secrets wasn’t playing around, and they’d already demonstrated a willingness to eliminate anyone who got too close.
I was good at my job, but I wasn’t superhuman. If someone decided to take her out with a long-range rifle while we were walking down the street, there was only so much protection I could provide. Too many windows, too many angles, too many variables I couldn’t control.
“I recommend you order your meals in,” I told her. “Have your groceries and anything else you need delivered rather than going out to get it. Let me handle anyone who comes to the door.”
She planted a hand on her curvy hip, her chin lifting in a challenge. “Are you going to taste my food first too? Make sure it’s not poisoned?” The sarcasm dripped from her voice.
I smirked. “Nice try, but you’re not worth dying over.”
The words came out harsher than I’d intended, and I saw something flicker across her face—hurt, maybe, quickly buried beneath another layer of that defensive ice.
It was a lie, anyway. It was my job to put myself in the line of fire for clients, no matter how complicated my personal feelings might be.
And beyond professional obligation, I wasn’t about to let someone like Vincent Calloway—someone who trafficked human beings, who’d already killed at least one woman to protect his secrets—add another victim to his tally.
Not on my watch.
Charlotte snorted and turned away, heading into the kitchen.
I watched her rifle through the refrigerator, then the cupboards, her movements growing increasingly agitated.
After a moment, she gave up and pulled out her phone, jabbing at the screen with more force than necessary, presumably to order something to eat.
I had to suppress a grin at the realization that Charlotte either didn’t cook or was spectacularly bad at keeping her kitchen stocked. Somehow, the detail humanized her in a way I didn’t want to acknowledge.
She didn’t offer to order me anything. That was fine. I could handle my own meals.
But then she walked past me to the dining room table—which was buried in papers, folders, and sticky notes—and opened her laptop. She typed in her password without even glancing my way, clearly dismissing me from her attention.
I crossed the room in three strides and shut the laptop firmly.
Charlotte’s head snapped up, her eyes instantly flashing. “Excuse me?”
The fire in her expression should have irritated me. Instead, some traitorous part of me admired it. She never did anything halfway—not anger, not desire, not defiance.
“You didn’t turn this over to Sutton.” My voice came out clipped, already edged with the frustration she’d managed to stir in under five minutes.
“Why on earth would I?” She planted her hands on her hips, glaring at me. “I need it.”
“It could be compromised.” I kept my hand on the closed laptop, preventing her from opening it again. “You left it here, in an unsecured apartment, while you were at our offices for hours. That’s more than enough time for someone to—”
“There’s been no sign of a break-in—”
“A professional wouldn’t leave signs.” I leaned in close enough to invade her personal space. “That’s what makes them professionals .”
“And they didn’t take the laptop?” She arched an eyebrow, clearly thinking she’d scored a point. “If they were here, why would they leave it behind?”
“Because taking it would alert you that you’d been compromised.
Leaving it means they can copy all your files, see exactly what evidence you have, and install spyware that lets them monitor everything you do going forward.
Every email you send, every document you open, every source you contact, they’d have access to all of it.
” I pulled the laptop away when she made another grab for it.
Her fingers brushed mine, sending an unwelcome spark straight through me.
“Tate in our IT department needs to go through the computer. He’s the best there is. ”
“And what happens if he finds something?” she shot back. “He’ll trip up Calloway’s people and let them know we’re onto them.”
“Not if Tate does it right, which he will.” I stepped closer without meaning to, crowding her space the way I used to when I wanted compliance.
This close, I could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, could count every freckle scattered across her cheekbones.
“The man can work miracles with hardware. If there’s surveillance software on here, he’ll find it and neutralize it without tipping anyone off. ”
“I need that laptop.” She jutted her chin out. “It’s where I have all my work. All my notes, my drafts, my research—”
“Then you’ll have to work without it until Tate clears the drive.” My tone remained hard because if it softened, I was in trouble. “Write your notes longhand.”
“Longhand?” She gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “What century do you think this is? I have to communicate with my managing editor. I have deadlines—”
“You’ve been emailing your editor all your information?” A cold weight settled in my stomach. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Of course I’ve been emailing my editor. How else am I supposed to coordinate a multi-part investigative series?”
Fuck. “Then they could be at risk, as well. Or, they could be a threat and an informant.” It was a worst-case scenario, but I had to look at every angle.
“You don’t know him—”
“No, I don’t know him,” I said, cutting her off.
“But I know how men like Calloway operate.” I set the laptop back on the table, but out of her reach while I reinforced the point that someone close to her had leaked information.
“You came to us because a woman who trusted you ended up dead. Someone sold her out. Someone told Calloway’s people where she’d be and when and what she’d divulged to you.
And the more you insist that the people around you are above suspicion, the more likely you are to end up just like her. ”
The words were harsh but they landed exactly where I’d intended. I watched Charlotte’s expression shift—anger flickering to uncertainty, then something that looked almost like fear.
Good. She should be afraid. Fear might be the only thing that kept her alive.
“I need to have our firm quietly investigate your office,” I said, more gently this time. “Your colleagues, your managing editor, anyone who has access to your files or your schedule. We need to know if there’s a leak, and if so, where it’s coming from.”
“My colleagues are good people,” she insisted, but her voice had lost some of its conviction. “We’ve worked together for years. I can’t imagine any of them would do anything so calculated.”
“I understand.”
And despite everything, I did. I knew exactly what it felt like to have the people you trusted turn against you.
To realize that loyalty was conditional, that everyone had a price, that the colleagues you’d thought had your back would sell you out without a second thought if the stakes were high enough.
“It’s a painful possibility,” I continued, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “But we can’t afford to leave stones unturned. Ruth trusted someone, and that trust got her killed. We need to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to you.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, and I braced for another argument. But then she closed it again, her shoulders sagging imperceptibly. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a tired and resigned emotion.
“Fine.” The word came out flat, defeated. “Do whatever you need to do.”
I stared at her beautiful face longer than was wise, seeing the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the weight of everything she was carrying pressing down on her.
Some inconvenient impulse to comfort her twisted in my chest, along with the urge to tell her it would be okay, to pull her into my arms and hold her the way I had that night at the club.
I ruthlessly crushed the instinct.
“I’m going to go and take a shower,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “Let me know when the food arrives.”
She walked past me toward the bedroom, her spine rigid, her chin held high even in retreat. The door closed behind her with a soft click, shutting me out.
Standing alone in her living room, I exhaled a long breath, trying to come to grips with the reality of what this assignment might cost me, personally.
For two years, I’d told myself I hated her.
Convinced myself she was just another person who’d betrayed me, no different from the colleagues who’d turned their backs or the brother who’d chosen career over family.
I’d built walls around the memories of our time together, buried them so deep I’d almost convinced myself they didn’t matter.
But standing here now, in her space, breathing air that smelled like her, I couldn’t maintain the lie.
I didn’t just resent Charlotte Massey. I hated how much I still wanted to understand her.
Hated how a part of me still ached to know if what we’d shared had been real or just another story she was chasing.
Hated that even now, after everything, seeing her vulnerable and exhausted made me want to protect her from more than just the men who wanted her dead.
She’d ruined my life. She’d taken the first good thing I’d felt in years and turned it to ash. And somehow, impossibly, infuriatingly—she still had the power to make me feel something other than numb.
I sank onto her couch and stared at the closed bedroom door, the muffled sound of running water drifting through the walls.
She could fight me on every precaution. Push back on every rule.
Pretend she didn’t need me. It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
I’d seen the fear she was trying to hide, the exhaustion she couldn’t mask, and the danger closing in around her whether she wanted to admit it or not.
I leaned back, jaw tightening. We might hate one another even more by the time this was over, but she’d be alive. And right now, that was the only outcome I cared about.