Chapter 21
Charlotte
I t took far longer than I wanted, but I refused to let panic win.
I kept my breathing slow and deliberate—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and by the time I finally felt the rope loosen enough to get free, my wrist was a mess. The skin had rubbed raw, split open in places, but the knot had given way, just barely, and that was all I needed.
My hand slipped out, and I nearly sobbed with relief. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I swallowed them down, forcing myself to stay focused as I tackled the remaining knots with renewed determination.
When I was completely free, I stood on shaking legs and surveyed the room.
Just because Calloway’s bedroom didn’t have cameras didn’t mean the rest of the penthouse was unmonitored, and I had no doubt his bodyguards were keeping an eye on the bedroom door. I needed to be smart about this and find something to protect myself with before I ventured out.
The nightstands held nothing useful—just condoms, sleeping pills, and a silk sleep mask. The walk-in closet was packed with designer suits and rows of expensive Italian leather shoes, but no weapons that I could see.
Then I spotted the writing desk tucked into an alcove near the windows, all dark polished wood and gold filigree.
My attention went first to the heavy crystal paperweight sitting beside a stack of documents—solid enough to crack a skull if I had to, along with all the other sculptures and decorative objects in the bedroom.
But then my gaze shifted to the closed laptop sitting right in the center of the desk like Calloway had gift-wrapped it for me personally.
I bit my bottom lip, my mind racing. My time was limited. If I was going to die here—if Calloway was going to make an example of me the way he had with Ruth—then I wanted to make damn sure he went down, too. Everything I’d worked for, everything Ruth had died for, couldn’t be for nothing.
I had no idea how much time I had until someone returned, but I was determined to get into that laptop and download whatever I could find.
I crossed to the desk, opened the lid, and turned on the computer. The screen glowed to life immediately, demanding a password.
Of course it did. I wouldn’t have expected anything less from a man like Calloway. But there had to be a way around a password. My eyes scanned the keyboard, and my pulse quickened when my gaze landed on the fingerprint scanner, integrated seamlessly into the design.
I remembered a trick one of my colleagues had shown me years ago—a tech journalist who’d written an exposé on security vulnerabilities. Fingerprint authentication is convenient , he’d said, and most people assume biometric security is foolproof, but it isn’t.
And then he’d gone on to explain just how easily that system could be exploited and breached.
His theory was worth testing, and I grabbed the tape dispenser from the desk drawer, quickly pressing strips against every surface Calloway would touch frequently: the edge of the desk, the drawer handles, the leather armrest of his chair.
I breathed on each area first—the moisture made latent prints more visible—then carefully peeled the tape away, examining each strip for a clean impression.
The first three were smudged and useless. The fourth one looked promising. Clear ridges. Solid definition. A complete print.
I pressed the tape to the scanner and held my breath. The laptop whirred, processing the print. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The screen unlocked. Welcome, Vincent!
“Holy shit,” I breathed, staring for a moment in shock. “It actually worked.”
I scrolled through his files with frantic urgency, hyperaware of every passing second. I wasn’t a tech expert, but I knew how to find what mattered: emails, financial records, documents with names and dates and dollar amounts. The kind of evidence that could destroy a man like Calloway.
The files were there—dozens of them, organized into folders with innocuous names that probably hid something far more sinister. But when I tried to open them, password prompts appeared.
Of course they’re encrypted.
But that wouldn’t matter if I could get them to someone who knew what they were doing.
Someone like Tate. I pulled up the browser, navigated to my Dropbox, and started uploading everything that looked relevant.
Financial spreadsheets. Email archives. Documents and file folders labeled with dates going back years.
Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl as I watched the loading bar inch forward. Ten percent. Twenty. My heart raced with every second that ticked by, certain that at any moment I’d hear footsteps, the door would burst open, and this would all be over.
Thirty minutes passed. Thirty minutes of barely breathing, of staring at that progress bar like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
When everything finally synced, I logged out and cleared the browser cache, erasing any obvious record of what I’d done. It wasn’t perfect—a real forensic analysis would probably find traces—but it was something.
A giddy, slightly hysterical feeling bubbled up in my chest. I’d done it. Whatever happened to me now, these files existed. If anyone went through my computer after I was gone, they’d find everything I’d just uploaded.
It was the only hope I had, but it was something .
Then I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Purposeful. Getting closer.
Fuck. I slammed the laptop shut and stood, spinning toward the bed. If I could just get back there, pretend I was still tied up—
The door burst open. One of the bodyguards from earlier filled the doorway, his face contorting with rage when he saw me standing free in the middle of the room.
“Goddammit,” he snarled.
I grabbed the nearest object—that heavy crystal paperweight—and hurled it at his head. “Fuck off, asshole!”
He ducked, and it shattered against the doorframe behind him. But I was already grabbing the next thing within reach: a small bronze sculpture, some abstract thing that was probably priceless. I threw that too.
“You crazy bitch—”
I didn’t know much about fighting, but I wasn’t going down easy. Every piece of art in this godforsaken bedroom became ammunition. A Tiffany vase. A marble bookend. A decorative bowl that might have been Ming dynasty.
The bodyguard swore and dodged, cursing me out as he tried to close the distance. I kept throwing, and when a heavy glass decanter connected solidly with his temple, he staggered, blinking hard. No doubt seeing stars.
Seizing my opportunity, I darted around him, bolting for the door. His hand shot out to grab me, fingers grazing my arm, but I twisted free and sprinted into the hallway—
And ran directly into a second bodyguard. He grabbed me by the shoulders, thick fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. I screamed—pure instinct—and drove my knee up between his legs with every ounce of force I had.
The man groaned, his grip loosening as he crumpled forward. I yanked myself free and ran.
The hallway opened into a massive living space, all white furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows and modern art on the walls. I spun frantically, searching for an elevator, stairs, any way out—
A deafening crash exploded from somewhere across the room.
I dropped behind a crouch, hands over my head, heart seizing with terror. The bodyguards were closing in. I could hear them running down the hall. I was trapped.
Then I heard a voice—familiar, furious, and the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
“Lay a goddamn finger on her and I’ll blow a hole right through your fucking heads.”
Kane .
I looked up over the back of the sofa. A stairwell door had slammed open across the room, and Kane stood in the opening, feet planted wide, gun raised and steady, and behind him, as back up, the man I’d been introduced to as Chase.
Kane’s face was carved from stone, all hard angles and cold fury, and in that moment he looked like vengeance made flesh.
He also looked incredibly, inappropriately hot, and I was clearly losing my mind.
“On the ground,” Kane commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Hands behind your heads. Now.”
The bodyguards hesitated. Kane’s finger shifted on the trigger. “I won’t ask twice.”
They dropped, and both Kane and Chase moved, pulling zip ties from their pockets and securing their wrists behind their backs with efficient, practiced motions. Once the thugs were contained—faces pressed to Calloway’s pristine white floor—Kane looked up at me.
Relief flooded his features, softening all that hard rage into something tender that made my chest ache.
“Charlotte,” he breathed.
Ignoring Chase completely, I ran to Kane, closing the distance between us and throwing myself into his arms. He caught me like he’d been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
His arms wrapped around me so tightly I could barely breathe, and I didn’t care. I buried my face in his chest, my fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. “I thought—” My voice broke. “I didn’t know if—”
“I know.” His hand cradled the back of my head, holding me against him. “I know. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I had no idea how long we stood there. Long enough for the terror to start draining out of me. Long enough for my heart to remember how to beat normally.
Then Kane pulled back just far enough to look at me, his eyes scanning my face, my body, checking for damage. When his gaze landed on my wrists—the raw, bloody mess I’d made of them escaping my restraints—his expression went dark.
“What the hell—”
“I did it to myself.” I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.
“He had me tied to the bed. But the idiot who did the knots didn’t know what he was doing, so I was able to work my way free.
” I attempted a joke, desperate to ease the torment in his eyes.
“Amateur hour. Didn’t know proper shibari. ”
Kane didn’t laugh. His jaw tightened, his eyes haunted with everything that could have happened but didn’t.