Chapter 11 #2
Charlotte sighed. “After the police story, I was hooked on investigative work. But my editor thought I should let things cool down and assigned me some fluff pieces instead. One of them was a profile on Calloway—his philanthropic efforts, his public image, the usual puff piece for a wealthy donor.”
“And you found something that didn’t add up.”
“I found nothing .” She leaned forward, intensity entering her voice.
“That was the problem. Most wealthy people, you can trace where their money came from. Family inheritance, early investments, business partnerships—there’s always a trail.
But Calloway just appeared fully formed, already rich, with no explanation for how he got that way. Like his true identity didn’t exist.”
“People change their names for plenty of innocent reasons,” I pointed out, not that I believed for a second Calloway was innocent.
“And do those people also materialize with hundreds of millions of dollars out of thin air? I know real estate pays well, but not that well.” Charlotte’s eyes flashed. “I’m good at smelling rats. I was raised by one. Something wasn’t right.”
I studied her face—the hard set of her jaw, the defiance in her eyes. I was raised by one. This wasn’t a casual remark tossed out for effect. Charlotte didn’t do throwaway comments. Which meant she’d just handed me something deeply personal. Something that cost her to admit.
I didn’t know what to do with the weight of that confession.
Didn’t know why she’d offered it, or what she expected in return.
We weren’t friends. We weren’t lovers—not really, not in any way that mattered beyond the physical.
We were two people bound together by circumstance and a history that should have made intimacy impossible.
And yet here she was, cracking open a door I hadn’t asked her to open. One, despite everything, I wanted to step through.
A long-forgotten emotion shifted in my chest. Not forgiveness—I wasn’t ready for that and might never be.
But something adjacent to it. Understanding, maybe.
The recognition that Charlotte Massey hadn’t sprung fully formed into the world as the hard-edged journalist who’d destroyed my career.
She’d been shaped by something. Someone.
It didn’t excuse what she’d done to me. But for the first time, I thought I might understand her reasons a bit more.
“So you followed your instincts,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Investigated further.”
Charlotte nodded slowly. “I know people like to dismiss intuition as just ‘vibes’ or whatever. But I’ve learned to trust mine when it comes to reading people. In this arena, at least.”
I wanted to ask what her instincts said about me. Whether that intuition had ever whispered that maybe, just maybe, she’d gotten the wrong man, regardless of the evidence. But her instincts clearly weren’t infallible if she was still certain of my guilt, so what was the point?
“I kept digging,” she continued. “Eventually I discovered Calloway owned several strip clubs through a maze of shell companies. So I went in to apply for a job.”
The image hit me before I could stop it—Charlotte in stilettos and a tight dress, moving through a dimly lit club, or twisting her half-naked body around a pole, all confidence and curves. My cock twitched traitorously.
Jesus. I’d throw every dollar I had at her for a lap dance, but I absolutely should not be thinking about that.
“Do you actually know how to strip professionally?” The question escaped before my brain could catch up with my mouth. I was such a fucking idiot.
Charlotte’s lips curved slightly, like she knew exactly what was happening in my head.
“I took classes years ago. Someone told me it was good money with flexible hours and I needed a way to pay for school. I ended up not pursuing it after hearing too many stories about harassment from customers, but I learned the basics.”
I wiped my brain clean and focused on our discussion. “And you got hired at one of Calloway’s clubs?”
“As a cocktail waitress. And I noticed immediately that something was off.” Her expression darkened.
“There were two types of workers. The ones like me, who’d applied normally and followed standard rules—look but don’t touch, no special services, everything above board.
And then there were the girls who were ‘up for anything,’ as management put it. ”
“Let me guess. Being ‘up for anything’ wasn’t their choice.”
Charlotte shook her head, fury kindling in her eyes.
“They were trapped, as I eventually discovered from Ruth. Trafficked. Documents confiscated, families threatened, no way out. But they didn’t want to talk about it—couldn’t risk it.
I spent months earning trust, being careful not to ask too many questions.
I watched other girls who got too curious suddenly stop getting shifts or outright fired. ”
I found myself leaning forward, drawn in despite myself. Her anger was magnetic. It reminded me of something I used to feel, back when I believed in justice and thought the system could be trusted to deliver it.
Now I wasn’t sure what to call the ember that still burned in my chest. It was barely a flame most days. But I wouldn’t be working with Sutton, helping protect people like Charlotte, if some stubborn spark hadn’t survived everything that tried to extinguish it.
“Even after all that effort,” Charlotte said quietly, “only Ruth was willing to go on record. She had a son back home with her parents. She wanted to get back to him badly enough to take the risk.”
“A child is powerful motivation.” The words came out before I could think better of them.
“I was adopted. My parents chose me when I was two, after my birth mother surrendered me to the system. They thought they couldn’t have biological children, and they said when they first saw me, they knew I was meant to be theirs. They were always there for me.”
Charlotte looked at me with what might have been surprise. Or curiosity. Or something softer that I didn’t want to name.
“A strong family unit makes people brave,” I continued, feeling exposed but unable to stop.
“But you’re right. After what happened to Ruth, we can’t expect anyone else to take that same risk.
Not when they’ve seen exactly what Calloway does to people who talk.
So what’s your plan now? If Ruth was your main evidence and she’s gone? ”
“There’s always a trail.” Charlotte’s chin lifted with familiar stubbornness. “Always. I just need to find the right thread and pull.”
My jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for that.”
“That’s what you’re here for.” She raised an eyebrow, challenging me. “To give me time.”
Do not make me spank you , I wanted to say. I held my tongue. This was the one fight I knew I couldn’t win with Charlotte. But the fear that coiled in my gut wasn’t professional concern for a client. It was more visceral. More personal.
I didn’t want to watch her die.
The realization hit me hard. Not that I’d ever wanted Charlotte dead—I didn’t wish that on anyone, no matter how angry I’d been. But this wasn’t just abstract opposition to losing a life, or even professional anxiety about failing an assignment.
This was fear . Real, gut-wrenching terror at the thought of something happening to her. She wasn’t supposed to matter to me. Not like this.
“There’s only so long I can keep you alive while you stay in Las Vegas,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “You need to understand that.”
Charlotte’s face went still, and she nodded slowly. “I appreciate how honest you are with me, Kane. I don’t want you to think I take that for granted. I know I am easily triggered when it comes to people lying to me. I find it very difficult to trust people at all.”
“Your father?” I guessed, remembering what she’d revealed earlier.
“Yes.” The word came out bitter, edged with old pain.
“He was always conning someone. Las Vegas is a perfect hunting ground for grifters—endless tourists who want to believe they’re special, that they’ve found an angle, that luck is finally on their side.
When I was little, he used me as a prop.
The cute kid who made the mark feel safe. ”
My jaw clenched at the thought of a child being used that way. “How old were you when you stopped?”
“Ten.” A mirthless smile flickered across her face. “Old enough to understand what we were doing. Old enough to refuse continuing being his sidekick.”
I could easily picture a tiny Charlotte with her intense eyes and stubborn jaw, standing up to a grown man who’d been manipulating people his entire life. Telling him no. Choosing integrity over family loyalty to a man who didn’t deserve it.
My chest warmed with reluctant admiration. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. But it was worth it.” She met my eyes directly. “That’s what I’m trying to explain, Kane. I’m not someone who can turn my back when I discover wrongdoing. I never have been. This is a hill I’m willing to die on.”
“No story is worth your life.”
“But what about the women Calloway is trafficking?” Her voice sharpened with emotion. “What happens to them if nobody is willing to take risks? You can’t honestly tell me that if you were the one uncovering this, you’d just walk away and let it continue.”
“You can’t say that, like you think I’m honorable.” I shoved to my feet so abruptly the chair scraped hard against the floor. “Not after what you wrote about me.”
Charlotte froze, her eyes widening instantly. “I—I didn’t mean it like that—”
“But you did.” My voice came out angrily, but I couldn’t seem to soften the edges.
“You don’t get to talk like you know what kind of a good and honest man I am when you already decided once before that I’m a liar, a criminal.
You think you know me well enough to predict what I’d do.
But you clearly don’t know me at all, do you?
Because if you did, you never would have published that article without talking to me first.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and charged with years of resentment and betrayal. Charlotte opened her mouth, but nothing came out. For once, the woman who always had something to say was speechless.
Good.
“I’m going to work out,” I said flatly, needing space before I said something I couldn’t take back. “Do you mind cleaning up breakfast since I cooked?”
I didn’t wait for her answer. I was already walking away, my shoulders tight, my chest burning with emotions I couldn’t afford to feel.
I changed into workout gear and headed to the garage. I’d seen a basic home gym setup there when we’d arrived last night —a bench, some free weights, a mounted pull-up bar. Not much, but enough.
I started with push-ups. Then pull-ups. Then whatever else I could find to make my muscles burn and my mind go quiet.
It didn’t work. Because the truth was, Charlotte’s question had cut deeper than she knew. You can’t honestly tell me that if you were the one uncovering this, you’d just walk away and let it continue .
She was right. If I believed innocent people were suffering, if I had evidence of something monstrous, I wouldn’t run either. I’d stand and fight, even if it cost me everything.
And that was the problem.
Charlotte had looked at me across that kitchen table with fire in her eyes and conviction in her voice, and for one reckless second, I’d heard trust instead of judgment. Like she actually thought I was a good man.
The realization unsettled me more than the argument itself.
I gripped the pull-up bar harder and dragged myself through another rep, muscles straining with the effort. Sweat trickled down my spine. My shoulders ached. Still not enough. None of it was enough to drown her out.
Because no matter how angry I was, no matter how badly I wanted to hold onto the bitterness that had kept me sane these past two years, my mind kept circling back to the same impossible truth.
Charlotte had risked herself for strangers. Not for fame. Not for money. Not for the thrill of a story. Because she genuinely couldn’t live with herself otherwise.
“Fuck.” The curse came out low and rough as I dropped from the bar.
I paced the garage once, twice, trying to shake the restless energy clawing beneath my skin. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not when every instinct I had was suddenly at war with itself.
I wanted to protect her.
I wanted to shake her for being reckless.
I wanted to hate her for what she’d done to me.
And somewhere beneath all of that—buried under anger and betrayal and two years of resentment—I still wanted her in ways that were becoming impossible to ignore.
That was the most dangerous part. Not the assassin hunting us or the risk of Calloway retaliating for a story a journalist intended to publish to expose him.
Charlotte herself.
Because she had always been the one thing capable of wrecking my control without even trying. And judging by the way my emotions refused to stay locked down around her, she still was.