35. Charlotte

35

CHARLOTTE

I t’s highly probable that this time tomorrow, I will be dead. That leaves me with twenty-four hours, if I’m lucky, to tie up a lifetime’s worth of loose ends. There’s not a moment to waste, which is why I’m sitting at the dining table, double-checking the arrangements I’ve made for my daughters.

Turns out, planning your own death is a lot like packing for a one-way trip—agonizing over what to leave behind, what to bring, and who will have to sort through the mess you couldn’t be bothered to handle.

I’ve always known this was part of the job. Death isn’t just a possibility; it’s a guarantee. What surprises me isn’t the prospect of it, but how much I still have to do. How much I’ve let myself believe I had time.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

In the last nine years alone, my agency has lost twelve operatives—seven of them weren’t accidents. They were inside jobs. I should know. I took care of six of them.

This work doesn’t offer safety nets or fairness. There are no consolation prizes. I’ve never fooled myself into thinking otherwise. But even now, as I sit here with the knowledge that my life might end within hours, I’m not afraid. What gnaws at me is leaving unfinished business. That, and the idea that my girls might never know why I chose this life over them.

The irony isn’t lost on me: the world I inhabit isn’t just dark; it’s pitch-black. And yet, here I am, flipping through pages of legal documents, my last attempt to make sure Hayley and Sophie are cared for, should my luck finally run out, which it will. Eventually.

The vibration of my phone drags me out of my thoughts. Another notification. Another video. Another reason to remind me why I’m doing this. Balancing my laptop on my knees, I power it on, slip in my earbuds, and click play.

The video starts at what looks like a Hollywood party. The scene is decadent—expensive champagne, designer drugs, and a sense of invincibility so thick it’s nauseating.

The camera wades through the crowd, capturing faces that even I recognize. Actors. Musicians. Power players who’ve built their lives on the illusion of control.

The camera pans to a young woman, barely out of her teens, if that. She’s cornered by a group of men, her movements jerky, her voice slurring. She’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s survival mode.

They’re touching her now. Laughing. One of the men pulls her closer. The scene devolves quickly—hands everywhere, her feeble attempts to push them away ignored. Someone blocks the camera’s view for a moment, and when it clears, the girl is crying. Her clothing is torn, her legs unsteady. No one in the room does a thing to stop it. In fact, the onlookers cheer. One man pulls out his phone to film.

And then I see him.

He’s not just part of the crowd; he’s directing it. A man with a face so famous, it’s on billboards throughout this city. Evan Rourke. I remember him from a charity event I worked a few years back. He gave some speech about giving back to the community, his smile flawless under the lights.

He’s not smiling now. His expression is predatory, watching as the men close in on the girl.

Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down. I watch until the very end. The camera shakes as the girl is dragged out of the room, barely conscious. The screen goes dark.

I sit back, my breath steady but my chest tight. The faces from that room flash behind my eyes like a sickening slideshow. I know what I’m supposed to do with this information. I know the path forward.

Evan Rourke . He’ll be on the yacht tomorrow night. That much I know for certain. But what about the others?

I glance at the clock. The hours are slipping away. Somewhere in this city, Rourke is living his last moments without knowing it. That thought should bring me satisfaction, but instead, all I feel is hollow.

This feels like a trap. I know this is a trap. But what am I going to do about it? Running won’t work. Not this time.

Eventually, my gaze drifts to the framed photo—the one of Michael, still smiling like the world hadn’t yet shown its teeth. He would’ve known what to do, and for the first time in years, I let myself miss him.

For the first time, I almost wish I hadn’t made that call. Even though it was the right choice, even though I know it was never going to work between us—not after everything. Family is a choice, not a guarantee. If someone betrays you, blood relation doesn’t make it better. It just makes it personal. Still, there’s a part of me that wishes he were here.

But wishes are for children, and I stopped believing in those a long time ago.