12. Charlotte

12

CHARLOTTE

I turn toward Sophie, my nails digging into my palms as I fight the urge to snap. She’s not even pretending to pay attention, her posture slumped, her eyes glazed. She’s making small talk with the agent like she’s here for a social gathering instead of an apartment search. I’ve had enough of this.

I don’t know how to get through to her. She needs to focus. We’re not here to make friends. We’re here to work. She wanted this. She said she wanted it.

When I told her that in the car on the way over, she didn’t deny it, which I suppose was meant to be a win for me, but it didn’t feel like one. It’s like she’s forgotten the whole point of this—everything we’re doing here is to make her stronger, more capable, yet she’s done nothing but make it harder.

My blood boils. This isn’t how I planned for today to go. How is she ever going to be able to manage in life if she can’t even deal with finding a place to live? She should be paying attention, not wasting time chatting like this is a casual outing. I’m not going to be around forever. These are things she will need to know. But before I can tell her this, before I can tear into her, the agent’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and direct.

“Charlotte, the kitchen’s over here, but if you want, we can?—”

Her voice pulls me back to the present. I glance at her, realizing I’ve let myself drift. The agent’s already half-turning, waiting for me to follow her.

And I’m about to when my phone buzzes. I glance down— Carlo.

"Excuse me," I say to the agent, stepping from the living area into the hall. For the first time all morning, I smile. I know exactly what this is. It’s the first good thing to happen all day.

I swipe to answer. “Carlo.”

“Charlotte,” his voice comes through, tight, serious. “We’re changing course.”

My smile fades. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“I know,” Carlo says, his tone going flat, professional. “But we need to change direction. There's a new priority. We’ve got a celebrity on the radar who's hosting a series of high-profile events. But there’s more happening behind the scenes. You’ll get closer to this than you think. I need you to get in, build access.”

“This wasn’t the plan.” Frustration creeps into my voice. “I’ve been waiting three years. Three years of your delays and distractions. You promised me—this was supposed to be the time. It’s why I came to this filthy, overcrowded city.”

Carlo’s voice softens just a touch, but it’s still all business. “I get it. But trust me, this will set everything else up. The work on the list? It'll feel like a walk in the park once you're inside.”

I hold the phone to my ear, keeping my expression neutral as his words sink in. Another network. Why? Changing course now makes no sense. But then, none of the agency’s requests ever make sense. They like it that way. I play along because it keeps food on the table and—on most days—I like being alive .

“Details?”

“I’ll send them,” Carlo replies. “But the goal’s simple: get access. Once you're inside, everything else falls into place.”

I glance over at Sophie, who's still standing by the window, staring out at the city like she has no fucking clue what she’s supposed to be doing. "What’s the timeline?"

“Now,” he says, sharp. “It’s moving faster than we anticipated. You need to move quickly, but be smart. Keep it tight.”

“Got it,” I say, already thinking through the steps. I’ve hated every celebrity I’ve ever met, but I’ve never been disappointed by a challenge.

I’m about to end the call when Carlo speaks again. “There’s something else. It needs to be handled today.”

I glance at Sophie again, her eyes vacant. Sometimes, swift action is the best lesson. “You’ll get me the details?”

“Of course,” he responds curtly. “But be careful. There’s more attention on you than you realize. Move like you’ve been doing this your whole life. Don’t screw it up. The list will happen when it’s time, but right now, this is the priority. Understood?”

I nod, though he can’t see me. “Understood.”

The call ends, and I look up. Sophie’s on her phone, texting someone. She’s no longer staring out the window, lost in her head. Her posture’s more alert now, and I know exactly who she’s texting. She’s never been good at hiding it, but this time, she’s not even trying.

I turn back to the agent, who’s still rambling about square footage. I’m done with the apartment. I’m done with everything, possibly even Sophie. She’s a liability—a distraction. And right now, I can’t afford to be distracted.

But she’s my daughter. What am I supposed to do? I can’t dispose of her the way I do everyone else. The anger surges, a knot in my chest; it’s the feeling of being trapped. She’s not ready. I’ve been holding out hope, but I’m starting to realize—maybe I made a mistake. And I don’t make mistakes.

I grab my bag and head for the door. “We’re done here,” I say, not bothering to look back. “I hate this place.”

Sophie glances at me, her eyes flickering, and we leave in silence. The city moves around us, but all I can think about is the email from Carlo waiting in my inbox. I need this. Sophie needs this. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.