18. Charlotte

18

CHARLOTTE

I ’ve been in New York for a few days now, and the city feels like a joke. People bustle around, every street corner brimming with energy, but none of it matters. The chaos doesn’t seep in; it doesn’t touch me. It’s almost like I’m watching from a distance, a spectator in a world that doesn’t belong to me. Sophie’s on my mind more than I care to admit, but even that feels like another distraction. Another fucking thing to deal with.

I don’t have time for worry, not that I’d ever call it that. The word is weak, and I’m not weak. But there’s something gnawing at me, an itch I can’t scratch. Maybe it’s the odd text I got last week, and then the identical one I received this morning.

It’s time to tell the girls.

At first I thought maybe it was Carlo. Or the agency. It’s something they do from time to time—test your mental fortitude. See if you might be slipping. But I’m not. I won’t.

And besides, I’m not so sure it was Carlo or the agency. I get the feeling it might be someone else entirely. Someone who knows too much.

But I can’t think about that now. It’s not going to change anything. I have other needs that need tending to. I have to clear my mind.

The city is full of noise, but it’s hollow. No matter how many people I pass, no matter how many bodies brush against mine, it feels empty. Like I’m still running on autopilot—doing the same thing over and over. A job here, a target there. It’s all the same. Just moving from one task to the next.

So, I decide to do what I do best: shut it all off.

I pull up the dating app. No use pretending I’m searching for anything substantial. I’m not looking for a connection—I don’t believe in that nonsense anymore. But sex? Sure, that’s something I can work with. Something quick. Something without strings. A means to an end. The idea of being touched without a second thought feels strangely soothing. A distraction. It’s been too long since I’ve felt that kind of heat between my legs.

I swipe through the profiles with mechanical precision, my eyes skimming past the typical bullshit. I’m not looking for a date, just a body. They all want something from me, something I can’t give, but that’s fine. I’m not giving anything away either. I pick one. Young -ish . Decent body, nothing special. He’s the right type—cocky, eager, and too dumb to know he’s dealing with someone who doesn’t give a shit about his personality. He looks like someone I can use and dispose. He looks like someone who will make it easy.

I set up the meeting quickly, the text exchanged with the kind of brevity that cuts through everything. He doesn’t need to know anything about me. All he needs to know is that he’s here for one reason—and I’m not about to waste time explaining it to him.

I’m in the hotel room first. Stylish, sleek, the sort of place that doesn’t scream for attention but still says plenty. Just the way I like it. My heels click sharply against the floor as I wait. Of course, he’s late.

When there’s a knock at the door, I don’t hesitate. I open it and find him standing there, a little too eager, his smile too wide. He’s younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe. His muscles strain beneath his shirt, and that cocky smile grates on me instantly. He thinks he’s special. He’s not.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, stepping forward.

I just nod, stepping aside so he can enter. He’s too forward. Trying too hard. He starts talking, his words coming out faster than they should, desperate to impress, eager to charm. The sound of his voice is irritating, and I feel my patience start to thin. I don’t care about him. I don’t care about anything he’s saying. He’s just a body to use and toss aside. And yet, I listen. I keep my face impassive, though inside, I’m already fuming. The noise of his voice, the effort he’s putting in—it’s too much. He’s wasting my time. I just want to fuck.

Which is what I tell him. Lucky for him, he listens.

We don’t make it to the bed. Instead, we fuck against the wall, his hands gripping my hips too hard, his breath hot against my neck. I arch my back and let him think he’s doing something right. I let him think he’s in control, that this is exactly how I like it. It’s easier that way.

I’ve long stopped pretending to care. His kisses are sloppy. I don’t return them. Just doing what needs to be done, nothing more. There’s no feeling in it. But I don’t need to feel.

His hands roam my body—too rough, too eager—but I force myself to moan anyway. The sex is exactly as I expect: mechanical, detached, void of any real emotion.

And still better than nothing.

My hands slide up his chest, feeling the tension in his muscles, the heat of his skin. His groan vibrates against my mouth, and suddenly, it’s like a spark. It’s not even the force of it; it’s the way it makes my body respond. My nails dig into his skin, finding the steady pulse beneath. My breath catches for a split second—unexpected, uninvited .

We move to the bed, where he’s quick to fall into a rhythm, his movements getting faster, harder. I feel it then—the sudden throb of something more than just friction. It’s the heat, the pressure, the almost unbearable intensity of it all, pulling me in against my will. And I hate how good it feels. I hate how badly I want it. But I don't stop. I lean into it, sinking into the rhythm he’s setting. This is what I came for.

The warmth in me builds, tightening, coiling. It’s almost too much and yet, never enough. The tension between us is unbearable, a slow burn that threatens to undo me.

And just as it’s about to snap—he stops. In the middle of it. Suddenly.

He pulls back, panting, his eyes wide and desperate. “I—sorry. I need a second,” he says, his voice breaking the moment.

What the fuck?

I freeze, my body still humming with the remnants of desire, my skin aching for him to finish what he started. But it’s gone, just like that. The heat lingers, burning through me, but he’s pulling away, his hands trembling as he sits up. I feel the absence of him immediately, like a void that’s impossible to fill. The frustration rolls over me in waves.

“Fuck,” he says, his hands running through his hair. “I can’t... I’m sorry. I—” His voice breaks again, this time more genuine.

The vulnerability in him is pathetic, and yet, there’s something about it that twists in my gut. I want to kill him for ruining it. I want to make him beg for my attention again. Instead, I just lie there, staring at him, my chest still tight, my body a taut wire ready to snap.

He sits up, wiping his hands on the sheets like he’s doing something. Like he’s not a fucking wreck. I watch him, my body aching with the sudden absence of his touch. The heat doesn’t go away, but it shifts into something sharper, more irritated.

“Fuck, it’s just—I don’t know,” he says, and I almost roll my eyes. His tears come next. The sobs, the pathetic, ugly sound of him breaking down right there in front of me.

I could end this now. I should end this now. A clean, simple solution. He killed my orgasm. He’s wasting my time, and I could make sure he never wastes anyone’s time again. The thought flits through my mind like a flash, but it passes before I can fully grasp it. I don’t move. I don’t reach for the gun in my purse. I don’t snap his neck, even though it would be so easy. Instead, I let him cry.

The sobs are maddening. They gnaw at my patience. He’s broken. I can see it now—his eyes wet, his face contorted with misery. He’s disgusting, a mess. And I’m just lying there, watching him, waiting for it to end.

I should kill him. I should take what little power I have left in this moment and end it. Make him stop talking. Make him stop existing. But I don’t.

When he’s finally done, when the sobs slow to a sniffling whimper, I let him leave. He pulls himself together, shoving his shit together like nothing happened. He tries to say something else, but I don’t let him. I just open the door. He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.

I stand there staring at the door for a long time, my body still tingling with irritation. The emptiness that follows is strange. Not the usual satisfaction of being done with someone. Not the rush of power. Just…emptiness.

Why didn’t I kill him? If I wasn’t going to come, I could have had the next best thing. I should have killed him. If nothing else, it would have put both of us out of our misery.

The thought nags at me. Maybe I’ve gotten soft. Maybe Sophie’s influence is starting to seep into me. I’m disgusted with myself for even considering it. I don’t have time for softness.

But I wonder.

What the fuck is happening to me?