38. Charlotte

38

CHARLOTTE

I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of my dress, making sure the black silk clings to my body just right. The fabric is cool against my skin, the deep neckline designed to draw attention without being too obvious. It’s understated luxury, just the way I like it. Subtle, but impossible to ignore.

I reach for my favorite pair of heels, the ones I wear when I need luck, when I need to remind myself who I am. If I’m going to die, these are the shoes I’d like to make the trip in. They fit like a second skin.

As I slide them on, I catch a glimpse of my reflection again. The woman staring back at me is always calculated, always controlled—but tonight, there’s something different. Something darker, maybe. Time will tell.

This is the kind of job that pulls at the edges of your soul, making you wonder if you’ve gone too far. But I’ve learned not to indulge those thoughts.

I pause, staring into my own eyes. They’re cold, unfeelin g. Ready.

The buzz of my phone on the dresser breaks the silence. I step over and check the message. It’s from Carlo, the man who never lets me forget that my life is never entirely my own. He doesn’t waste words.

The target is arriving at 9 p.m. sharp. You know the plan. Keep it clean.

I read it twice, then once more for good measure. A public hit. Never ideal. Public kills are messy. You have to send a message, but there’s always the risk—witnesses, cameras, the whole damn spectacle. Then there’s the added complication—the things the agency and Carlo aren't telling me. Like what’s really going on at these parties, why this hit was ordered.

But why would he tell me? Those are the details that never make it to the press—the dirt swept under the rug with enough money to keep it there.

Not that the agency cares about the details, the press, or what gets buried. They want results. They always want results.

I slip the phone into my clutch, my mind already shifting into the mode I know too well. A job is a job, no matter how personal or ugly it is. And this one—this one has a certain poetic edge: A target like this, at a party like this, thinking he’s untouchable. No one is. Not even the rich and famous.

I step back from the mirror, appraising my reflection one last time. The dress. The heels. The flawless look of understated elegance. I pull my hair into a sleek ponytail, the motion deliberate, sharp, as if I’m preparing for battle. There’s a clarity in my movements, a cold precision to everything I do tonight.

The target is never the most interesting thing at a party like this. It’s all the faces around him—the ones who think they’re safe, the ones who think they can get away with whatever they want. Most likely it’s a trap. The agency’s simple but effective way to dispose of me. Either way, a message will be sent. I will not die in vain.

When I arrive at the venue, I’ll be just another guest in the crowd, and they’ll never see me coming.

Sophie’s sitting on the edge of my bed, flipping through her phone like she doesn’t realize the world is about to shift. She’s been distant lately, quieter, and I can feel the weight of her thoughts when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I won’t ask her what’s wrong. She has her secrets, just like I have mine. But this? This is different. She’s sad—distracted—and unfortunately, I can't leave her behind tonight.

Even though I should.

This job—the one in the Hamptons—it’s either a test or a trap. It’s always one or the other. And Carlo’s backed me into a corner. I’ve failed to follow Rule #9: Always have an exit strategy. Men, houses, jobs—doesn’t matter. Know where the back door is and be ready to run.

Which is why Sophie has to come with me.

Carlo’s made it clear he expects her to be involved, to learn. And maybe for once, we’re on the same page. Sophie needs to know what to do when she’s trapped, or tested. It’s one lesson I can’t afford for her to miss.

I look at her now, seated on my bed with sad eyes, her long hair falling in messy waves around her face, absorbed in whatever’s on her screen.

I have to trust her. I have to believe she can handle it.

I finally break the silence. “You seem distracted.”

Her eyes narrow, defiance flashing in them. It’s a trait she gets from me—the same stubborn streak that’s kept me alive in this business.

“You look nice,” she says. “But when are you going to tell me what’s going on? You look like you’ve been chewing on glass.”

I don’t have the chance to answer because Hayley, her face flushed with frustration, storms in like a hurricane. Her eyes dart around before settling on me, arms crossed, lips pursed in that all-too-familiar teenage pout.

“You’re leaving without me again?”

I don’t let the question throw me. “Yes. ”

She steps forward, anger rising in her eyes. “You take Sophie, but never me. What’s the real reason? I know there’s a reason. And I know you’re lying about whatever it is.”

I don’t even flinch, still adjusting my dress in the mirror. “You’re underage, Hayley. It’s not the kind of event for you.”

She doesn’t accept that. Her lips curl into a sneer. “Not my kind of event? That’s your excuse?” She moves closer, pushing back the strands of hair that have fallen in her face, a clear sign of her frustration. “You never take me anywhere. What’s so wrong with me?”

I turn to face her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. She’s upset, I can see it in the set of her shoulders, but I don’t have the time or patience to coddle her right now.

“You’re underage. It’s a party for adults. You’re not coming.” I keep my tone firm, no room for argument.

Her face tightens with frustration. “I’m not a little kid, Mom. I can handle myself. You always treat me like I’m too young, but I’m not. Anyway, I doubt they’re going to card me. You know I can look older when I want to.”

I step toward her, my heels clicking sharply against the floor, cutting through the tension in the air. “This isn’t a debate, Hayley.”

She glares at me, the anger in her eyes clear, but she doesn’t fight me any further. Instead, she shakes her head in disgust, spinning on her heel. “Whatever.”

The sound of the door slamming behind her barely registers. I check the mirror one last time. There’s no room for distractions. No room for guilt. Just the job. Just tonight.

Time to go.