Chapter 10
Charlotte
A n assassin. In the apartment directly below mine. Waiting for me to come home so he could kill me.
And I’d had no goddamn idea.
Some investigative reporter I was. I’d spent months uncovering Calloway’s trafficking operation, tracing shell companies and interviewing terrified witnesses, and meanwhile someone had been living beneath my feet, monitoring my movements, and memorizing my schedule.
All while I made coffee and took showers and slept in blissful, ignorant vulnerability.
The thought made my skin crawl.
I followed Tate through the Noble and Associates offices, trying to focus on the present instead of spiraling into what-ifs. My stomach was in knots—partly from the revelation about the potential assassin, partly from another emotion I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Kane was out there, walking into my building, knowing someone dangerous was waiting inside.
Calloway was after me, not him, and there was no logical reason for the assassin to engage a random visitor.
Revealing his position prematurely would compromise the entire operation.
Kane would be fine. He was trained for this. He knew what he was doing.
I told myself that over and over, but my chest stayed tight until I forced myself to think about something else.
Tate led me to the tech area—a sleek, modern space filled with monitors and equipment I couldn’t begin to identify.
He offered me water and directed me to a generously stocked break room.
My stomach rumbled at the sight of the snacks.
The Chinese food from earlier felt like a lifetime ago, and I’m certain the.
.. activities at the club had burned more calories than I wanted to calculate.
I grabbed crackers and packaged cookies while Tate set up at a workstation, pulling up screens and typing commands with the easy confidence of someone who spoke fluent computer technology.
“I’ve set you up with a completely clean system,” he explained, gesturing to a sleek laptop on the desk.
“New device, new network profiles, all your files migrated over without any of the infected code. Think of it like... digital quarantine. Everything important made it through, but nothing malicious hitched a ride.”
I nodded along, sitting beside him, chewing on a cookie.
I wasn’t ignorant about digital security—I used a VPN and Tor regularly, encrypted my sensitive communications, took precautions that would make most journalists look paranoid.
But apparently none of that mattered when someone had physically cloned my phone and used it as a backdoor into my entire digital life.
“I thought I was careful,” I admitted when Tate finished his explanation. The words tasted like failure.
“You were.” His voice was kind, reassuring. “For ninety-nine percent of threats, your precautions would have been more than enough. But we’re dealing with a man who has essentially unlimited resources and no moral boundaries. The rules change when someone like that decides they want you dead.”
The casual way he said wants you dead should have bothered me more than it did. Maybe I was getting desensitized. Or maybe I was just too tired to feel the appropriate amount of fear.
Tate paused, then asked with studied nonchalance, “So. What were you and Kane doing at a sex club?”
I startled so hard I nearly knocked my soda to the floor. “What are you talking about?”
“Kane’s work phone has location services enabled.
” Tate turned his monitor so I could see, pulling up a tracking interface that showed a familiar map of Vegas with a blinking dot.
“Standard safety protocol when one of our guys is in the field. I can see everywhere he’s been tonight.
Including The Players Club, where you both apparently spent a couple of hours. ”
Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy. I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. Or possibly die. Dying seemed like a reasonable alternative to this conversation.
Tate’s expression softened with something that looked annoyingly like sympathy. “For what it’s worth, I’m genuinely the last person who would judge someone for sleeping with a client. Just... be careful who finds out. Some people around here have stricter opinions about professional boundaries.”
“Speaking from personal experience?” The question came out more defensive than curious.
His smile turned wry, almost fond. “Very much so.”
“It won’t happen again.” I forced my voice to stay steady, professional. “It was a one-time thing. We just needed to... clear the air.”
Tate’s expression said he didn’t believe me for a second, but he was diplomatic enough not to argue. Instead, he shifted topics with the grace of someone who recognized a conversational minefield.
“You really should consider leaving town,” he said, just like everyone else before him had warned me. “Get some distance while you figure out your next move.”
I sighed, exhaustion and frustration bleeding into the sound. I was so tired of having this argument. “And admit defeat? Abandon my story? Let Ruth’s death mean nothing?”
“You can publish the story from anywhere in the world. I skimmed through your research files while I was migrating them—impressive work, by the way—but this man is genuinely dangerous. The kind of dangerous that doesn’t stop at city limits.”
“Calloway traffics women internationally. He has contacts on multiple continents.” I shook my head.
“No matter where I run, there’s a good chance he could find me.
I’m not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows, never staying anywhere long enough to matter.
That’s not living. That’s just dying slowly. ”
I’d never backed down from doing what was right. Not once in my entire life and I refused to start now.
Growing up with my father had taught me at a young age that the world was full of people who would take advantage of others if given half a chance.
Conmen and grifters and charming criminals who smiled while they emptied your pockets.
My father had been one of the best—or worst, depending on your perspective.
He’d fleeced tourists and retirees with equal ease, spinning elaborate lies that people wanted to believe.
Watching him ruin people’s lives had done something to me.
While other teenagers rebelled by sneaking out to parties and experimenting with alcohol, I’d channeled my defiance into a different kind of crusade.
When my father was running his latest scheme, I was investigating the misappropriation of school funds by our district administrators.
When he was charming widows out of their savings, I was writing exposés for the school newspaper about predatory lending practices targeting students.
It wasn’t just about pissing him off. I wasn’t sure he cared enough about me to be upset by anything I did. It was about balance. Cosmic justice. For every wrong he committed, I’d been determined to commit a right. Like I could somehow cancel out his sins through my own acts of righteousness.
Naive, maybe, but it had shaped who I became.
If I could stand up to corruption as a teenager with nothing but stubbornness and a borrowed laptop, I could stand up to Vincent Calloway.
He was essentially the same as any other criminal underneath the expensive suits and charitable donations—just wealthier and more vicious.
I wouldn’t let him or his hired killers frighten me into silence.
Ruth hadn’t run. Ruth had trusted me to tell her story. I owed her more than fear.
Tate sighed, but there was a hint of respect in his expression.
“You’re not wrong. But if you want my advice?
Whatever you’re planning to do, do it fast. You need to act before Calloway’s people can adjust their strategy.
The longer you wait, the more opportunities they have to find you, and it’s nearly impossible to stay hidden in today’s modern world.
You can manage it, but it takes everything you’ve got—constant vigilance, endless paranoia, never staying in one place too long. ”
He leaned forward, his voice becoming more serious.
“Right now, your best advantage is speed. Stay one step ahead of them, and publish as soon as humanly possible. The moment that story goes public, killing you becomes significantly less useful to Calloway. It might even make things worse for him—turn you into a martyr and draw more attention to the investigation. But until then, you’re just a loose end that needs tying up. ”
“Publish or perish,” I said dryly.
Tate grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Literally.”
I found myself studying him as he turned back to his monitors.
He was so much more open than Kane—at least, this version of Kane.
The Kane I’d known two years ago had been different.
Warm. Approachable. It was part of what had drawn me to him in the first place.
He’d been a dom who was also soft , which seemed like a contradiction but wasn’t.
Commanding without being cold. Powerful without being cruel.
The opposite of what I was, or at least what I’d always felt myself to be. Closed off. Guarded. Unable to trust.
I thought about the people we’d encountered at the club.
Chase and Andrea, Austin and Ford and Violet—Tate’s coworkers, clearly a tight-knit group despite their different personalities.
They’d been so warm, so welcoming, genuinely trying to draw Kane into their inner circle.
And he’d been so stiff. Resistant. Like their kindness was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
I’d been stiff too, but that was just me. That was always me, in new social situations and around people I didn’t know.
But Kane’s distance had felt different. Not nervousness about being caught with a client at a sex club. Not professional caution. Something deeper. Something wounded.