52. Charlotte

52

CHARLOTTE

Nine months later

I stop in the lobby and head straight to the restroom to change and freshen up. Shaking out the short blonde wig, carefully folded and tucked into my oversized tote bag, I slip it into place, adjusting it just so. I touch up my lipstick, double-check my reflection in the mirror, and swipe on another coat of mascara. Still not satisfied, I make the effort to slip the false eyelashes into place, closing my eyes and squeezing them shut before opening them slowly. I check my appearance one last time. The transformation is striking. I don’t look like myself at all.

When Hayley steps out of the stall, her eyes widen in surprise. Mine do too. She’s wearing the same bold makeup—heavy black eyeliner, vivid red lipstick, and a skirt that’s far too short. But it’s the look in her eyes that steals my breath. She doesn’t just look older; she looks like me .

“Should we go over it again?” I ask, glancing at her in the mirror.

“No,” she says firmly, a slight smirk on her lips. “I told you a thousand times. I got it.”

We arrive at Gideon Adler’s wedding reception in a hotel ballroom on the Las Vegas Strip. The venue is a vast, glittering space, its high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers that catch the light in a thousand dazzling ways. The floor is polished marble, reflecting the neon glow from the city’s lights that flood through the massive windows, casting a colorful hue over the entire room. It’s an extravagant affair, far from any notion of understated luxury—perfect for blending in, if you know how.

We’re not on the guest list, but that’s a detail we can easily finesse. No one will ask, but if they did, I’d tell a convincing story about representing a company with ties to the Adlers’ family business. The Adlers are well-known power players, their influence woven into the fabric of the city, and their associates are too wrapped up in the spectacle to ask probing questions. A few polite smiles, and that’d be that.

Hayley and I settle into the rhythm of the event, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. The guests, decked out in designer attire, circulate through the ballroom, some making small talk, others eyeing the open bar. We take in the layout of the venue—the towering floral arrangements, the gleaming silver trays of hors d'oeuvres, and the string quartet playing softly in the background.

As we make our rounds, we’re careful to observe the key players, making mental notes of who’s who in this glittering world. But all of it is just window dressing. The real prize is Gideon Adler, and when the time is right, we have plans with him.

At dinner, as the third course is served, Gideon excuses himself to take a call. Even at his own wedding, business calls. But I know it’s not business that’s on his mind—it’s something far more personal—and far more satisfying to me.

Later, we meet in the men’s room. It’s stark and modern, with sleek black tiles and gold accents that shimmer under the harsh overhead lighting. Sometimes the wealthy have taste; more often than not, they don't. I close the door quietly behind me and press my back against it, taking a steadying breath before pulling my gloves from my small clutch.

Gideon Adler finishes his call and turns around, his expression a mix of curiosity and recognition.

“They said I might be expecting you,” he says, eyeing me closely. “Charlotte, right?”

Our gazes lock. “You tell me.”

“The female assassin.”

“An assassin is just an assassin.”

“At any rate,” he continues, “I suppose you haven’t come here to make introductions.”

“Your assumption would be correct.”

“In that case,” he says, his tone flat, “let’s not waste any time.” His eyes narrow, sizing me up. He’s got a bit of fight in him.

“You’re not scared to die?”

“Does it matter, my darling Charlotte?”

“I am not your darling.”

“You are the last person I will see alive. Humor me.”

“No.”

He moves in, casually eyeing me. “So, what’s it gonna be? Sit, kneel, or just stand here like this? How do you want me?”

“As you are is fine.”

“Okay,” he says with a lazy grin, placing his hands behind his head as if he's under arrest—like he’s not about to die. “I am ready.”

I am angry that he is making a mockery of my work. It is rude, after I’ve come so far, all the way to this shitty city, that he is removing all of the satisfaction. He knows exactly what he is doing.

Taking a step forward, I open my switchblade.

“To answer your question,” he stammers, a slight tremor in his voice, “I am scared to die. Everyone is.”

“Not everyone.”

“Do you want to argue your point, or do we get this over with? I’ve got two law degrees, dearest Charlotte. We could be here a while.”

“It’s rare I kill such an overachiever.”

“Really?”

“No,” I say, a flicker of a smile tugging at my lips. “That was a lie.”