Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

C harlie

Leave now, Charlie. You're going to end up getting hurt.

The little voice inside my head is going to tell me she told me so when this all goes wrong. It's not that I can't hear her. She's stamping around in my head in a not-at-all-little sort of way. She's wearing boots with big spikes sticking out of the bottom of them. With every step she takes, she pricks my conscience terribly.

I'm not listening to her, or to anybody else. I've come this far, and I have absolutely no intention of backing down now.

A soft chime and a moment of weightlessness indicate that I have reached my destination. As the elevator doors part before me, I take a deep breath and smooth my hands down my stomach. I am dressed conservatively, but appropriately. I've chosen a gray wool pencil skirt that falls just below my knees and black kitten heels. My dirty blonde hair is slicked back into an updo that I hope looks sophisticated.

As I step into a corporate oasis, I catch sight of myself frequently in the many reflective surfaces which dot the place, every time seeing some other facet of myself. Someone must spend a lot of time polishing the various features which have been placed in abundance. The sun shines through a window at the end of the foyer, making the shiny bits of decor gleam.

It is quiet, but there are plenty of people here. At least a dozen of them are either stationed behind various reception desks or moving from one office to another. Long-legged men in expensive suits make charming conversation with perfectly professional looking women whose little fingers contain more sophistication than I have in my entire body.

I don't know the words for the way this place has been designed. It's an office, but it's not a utilitarian space by any stretch of the imagination. There is something faintly Olympian about this place, as if I am walking in the realm of modern gods. Everybody here is beautiful and dressed to perfection. My attire will do, but it is simple compared to the styling I see displayed on some of the other women.

This is the head office of the Waterstone Corporation. Not many people are permitted to access the ninetieth floor of the Waterstone building. You have to have a special pass, and you have to speak to a special man with a special uniform down on the first floor. He verifies your identity in a way that feels futuristic and incredibly invasive, taking your picture right there at the front desk and matching your features to the DMV database. At least, I assume that was what was going on when he was muttering intensely to himself and clicking so many keys on his keyboard, or he was doing a pretty good impression of a late 90's hacker.

I'm here now, though. And I am immediately and completely out of place. I don't have enough money to be here. I am too poor to breathe this rarefied air. I feel as though everybody who looks at me knows that right away. I get polite smiles from everybody, which tells me I am in a place where only important people come. If you walk into a normal office, people don't even bother to give you a second glance. They're busy, and strangers don't matter. In this particular set of offices, everybody matters.

I am nervous, and that is a good thing, because I am also in danger. This looks like the last place anybody would be in danger, but that's deliberate. If you're going to run a multi-billion-dollar evil empire, you don't want the place looking like a villain's lair. You want it to look like this place does, respectable and imposing.

The Waterstone Corporation has holdings across the globe. They make everything from toothpicks to tanks, and contract out in everything from marketing to mercenaries. The company is owned by none other than Marcus Waterstone, an old-money billionaire from a beloved corporate family. The Waterstones are one of America's few answers to the British, or any other monarchy. There are portraits of the Waterstone ancestors on the walls here and there, displayed in a tasteful and almost modern way.

I'm here to see the man himself. Marcus Waterstone.

It's hard to believe that someone like me has actually managed to get an interview with a man like him. He does press from time to time, but usually with large mainstream media outlets, not indie journalists like me. I sent him an email, and by some wild chance, he actually responded. It all still feels like a bit of a dream.

All businessmen of his caliber are dirty in one way or another, but I suspect that Marcus Waterstone is downright filthy. The stories about this man are legendary. Some of them are so overblown, I'm sure they fall more into the category of urban legends.

I have more specific suspicions about Marcus. I think he's much more than a businessman. I think he is essentially leading one of the biggest criminal networks that America, and perhaps the world, has ever seen. Waterstone Corp is the perfect cover for a whole lot of very shady activities that I—and some dedicated online sleuths—have been putting together for months now.

This interview probably won't reveal much overtly, but I am hoping to get him to say something that ties him to one of the many criminal activities my friends and I think he is responsible for.

I'm almost at his personal reception desk where a large W on the wall echoes the large W on the outside of the building. Billionaires aren't really popular now, but Marcus Waterstone has avoided the worst of the flak by being one of the most powerful men on the planet nobody has ever heard of outside of the boardrooms of America.

There're all different kinds of famous. There's Internet famous. That's what counts for actual famous these days. Then there's the niche kind of famous.

Marcus Waterstone is famous among people who are richer and more powerful than most of the people that normal people hate for being rich and powerful.

The Met Gala would seem like a downmarket meat market for the sorts of people who move in Marcus' circles. He is elite among elite, and the fact that I am standing here is nothing short of a small miracle.

An expansive desk sits below the W . I make a beeline for it.

Marcus' secretary is a woman who exudes a surprising amount of warmth, considering the atmosphere. She is a model of efficiency and kindness. Her gray hair is swept back in a lovely vintage fashion and kept in place with a pin. She is in her fifties, I would guess, and she seems as though she has the wherewithal to run this entire company. She did not so much as glance at the calendar. She is clearly very familiar with Mr. Waterstone's schedule for the day and has committed it to memory.

"Hello," I say. It feels like a weak greeting, even though it is really the only possible greeting.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Charlotte Crown," I say. "I'm here for a ten o'clock interview with Mr. Waterstone?" My inflection rises at the end, which makes me sound uncertain. That's deliberate. I don't want to come across as too put together. I want to seem properly awed by this place that is designed to inspire awe.

"Miss Crown, right on time," she says, giving me an approving smile. "Let me get you settled. Please, follow me."

I follow her through the door that sits alluringly behind and to the side of her desk. It has a frosted glass panel at the top, through which amber light glows. If I were a fanciful sort of person, I'd say there's something almost enchanting about this place. I'm not, of course. There's no magic here, except that which can be performed by vast amounts of cold, hard cash.

We step through the door, and the temperature rises ever so slightly. The carpet beneath my feet feels thicker and more luxurious. The smell of leather, mahogany, and pure fucking power hangs in the air. I now realize the reception area I was just waiting in is about as refined as the subway at 125th and Lexington compared to this inner sanctum.

Mr. Waterstone's secretary leads me into a room that looks like an office, but can't possibly be his office. There's no way I would be allowed in that room. This has to be a dummy office, a room that looks like he inhabits it from time to time, but which certainly contains no personal or sensitive documents.

"Mr. Waterstone will be here in a moment."

There are two comfortable armchairs set in front of the skyline. I take a seat in the one that puts my back to the door. I know Marcus wouldn't want to sit in that one. He'll want his back to the expansive view, to be silhouetted mysteriously against the light. He'll also want to be able to see the door from where he's sitting. The chair I've chosen makes me vulnerable.

The second she closes the door, I get up. I am not going to waste time scrolling through my phone when I could be examining an office in the Waterstone building. Even if this one contains nothing at all…

"What the hell…" I murmur the inquiry under my breath.

There's a painting on the wall. I didn't notice it because it's on the same wall as the door, and I walked right past it. It's the sort of art that only very, very rich people have the balls to display. I come from a world where lions on soft plastic blankets and psychedelic tiger motifs reign supreme. His art is not like that in the slightest, though it is rather provoking.

The painting depicts a female figure portrayed very elegantly. She looks out over the skyline the same way I was doing previously, a slightly coy expression on her face. She is wearing a collar around her neck. A dog's collar. There's no mistaking it. It has the buckle and the little D ring as well. Other than that, she is wearing a sort of faintly gauzy garment that hints at the outline of her body. There's something inappropriate about it. Her eyes are big and brown, and they stare out of the image with a challenging expression.

Oh. I've just noticed there's a bowl beside her feet. Is she about to feed a pet that isn't in the picture? Is she maybe wondering where her little dog has gone? Hard to say. I snap a quick picture, feeling guilty as I do. I shouldn't really be taking pics of people's private art, but this is weird as hell and should be shared.

I jump back in surprise as the door swings open. I am caught in the dominant and enigmatic gaze of none other than Marcus Waterstone.

He is tall. Very tall. He has to be at least six foot three. I'm five foot six, slightly taller than the average woman, but suddenly I'm made diminutive. I dressed to the very best of my ability today, but now I feel like I may as well have thrown on a potato sack and brushed my hair with the nearest stray cat.

My first impression of him is his height, but that is quickly followed by an expensive haircut and an even more expensive suit. Everything about him is understated, and everything he is wearing is worth a good year's rent—including his cufflinks. He oozes a kind of comfortable richness that is very different from the way a lot of rich men are rich. A lot of men like this are eager to be noticed. They flash their wealth with an arrogance that belies the desperate little boy inside them.

He doesn't need to beg for attention. He commands it.

Now my eyes linger on his face. He has dark brown eyes, the kind that could be mistaken for black sometimes and in some lights, because they're so close to the color of his pupils. He has thick dark brows that look like they've been shaped, and probably have been, but in a way that doesn't diminish his masculinity one bit. He is perfectly groomed. His jaw is broad and square. Basically, he's handsome. The perfect specimen of evolution. Darwin's wet dream. Men want to be him, and women want to be in bed with him. There's no end to the cliches that apply to his appearance.

I am reacting to him physically. I can feel myself transforming into a simpering mess.

That won't do. I have to get a grip. I try to think of something that isn't attractive, but I find my mind entirely unable to redirect. He is the kind of hot that completely hijacks my entire nervous system. I let it happen. Awestruck works.

"Oh! Hello!" I hear my voice crack into a little squeak.

"Hello, Miss Crown."

His voice is like molasses and grit, deep and resonant, and with a quality that makes a warm feeling travel down my spine.

"I was just looking at your art. It's very… striking."

"The artist is a good friend of mine," he says, in the way rich and hyper-connected people do. Everybody is a friend of theirs, in my experience. I'm sure he doesn't mean it in the way normal people mean ‘friend'. I bet the artist who made this picture doesn't call him to complain about the guy or girl they're dating. I wonder if Marcus has friends in the cozy, pedestrian way I do, or if being who he is makes it impossible to truly trust anyone.

"Is there some significance to the theme?"

"What do you think, Miss Crown?"

"I think displaying a painting with a woman who is wearing a dog collar is fairly controversial, especially in an office where you take interviews with female journalists…"

Dammit, now I sound judgmental. I have to stop saying what I think the second someone asks me. Honesty is very rarely the best policy.

"Sorry," I say. "That sounded… I don't mean to judge, it's just an interesting…"

"The human relationship to collars is a complicated one," he says. "They can be used to subjugate and terrorize. Or they can be a symbol of ownership and caring. Quite often, they are both."

Something in his tone makes me blush. I hate that you can't fight a blush, really. Any other expression can be fought back one way or another, hidden in some kind of other response. But I can't hide the fact that I just changed color entirely and now look like a lobster.

He smiles, pleased at having me off balance. Maybe that's all the picture is for. Maybe it's just there to make people slightly unsure of who they're talking to. In the eighties, there were all sorts of corporate resources about positioning and power plays. The height of various chairs, the size of desks, body language, and yes, even decor came into it. It wouldn't surprise me if Marcus was a master of all the old ways.

He moves on smoothly from that comment, as if it isn't one of the most interesting things I've heard someone say in a long time. What does he mean by that? What is his relationship to collars? Does he think they belong on women?

"I thought she lost her dog," I say, making what feels like a lame attempt at conversation. "But I suppose she wouldn't put his collar on, would she?"

Marcus smiles at me easily and settles into a chair that looks big until he sits down in it. My impression of everything in his office being somehow super-scale changes now that I realize it's actually all made according to his proportions. Everything fits him perfectly.

He extends his hand toward the chair in front of him, indicating that I should sit. Just as I thought, he's facing the door. He's also facing that painting. I see him glance at it over my head for a brief moment before redirecting all of his considerable attention to me.

I have got to get my head back in this game. I did not come here to actually be a simpering sycophant. I am doing my best to appear to be a simpering sycophant, while in fact keeping my mind sharp.

He is a shark. He is a beast. He is a…

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Oh! Er… uhm…"

Get it together, Charlie, I lecture myself.

"Water, please."

There we go. I'm back on track and sounding sensible and human again.

I get the pleasure of watching his athletic body rise from the chair. He crosses the room to a little bar which is very well stocked. I am sure there are even more options in the cabinet below. I could have asked for anything. Water was probably the correct choice.

He hands me a glass, and for a brief moment as the vessel passes hands… our fingers touch. It is the most grazing and fleeting of moments and motions, but I feel myself growing hot under the collar again. I take a sip of the water in an effort to cool myself down, and promptly choke as my swallow reflex kicks in early because of the way he is standing over me, looking down at me, making my autonomous nervous system misfire.

He pats me on the back, his big hand helping me breathe again even as he takes my breath away. I can feel the warmth of his palm through the relatively thin material of my blouse. It is another little intimacy I cannot process with any degree of decorum.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry," I say. "I'm so embarrassed."

"You look cute when you're embarrassed," he says, smiling.

For a moment, I forget who he is. I respond to him as if he's just any old ordinary hot guy.

"Thanks." I smile, allowing myself a little hint of a giggle. He's charming. Devastatingly so. I wonder, for a brief second, if everything everybody says about him is a lie. Maybe my leads are inaccurate. Maybe it's all just jealousy and innuendo and…

He sits back down in his chair. "I can tell you're one I'm going to need to keep an eye on," he says.

I feel myself blush hotly, and I damn near choke on my water again. He has me so off-balance, it's absolutely ridiculous.

I decide to just lean into it. Fuck it. If I'm going to be a giggly dumb blonde of an interviewer, he'll never see anything else coming. At this stage—even I'm starting to doubt my own reputation as a crack reporter and investigative journalist.

"So," I say, putting the glass to the side on a little table near my elbow. I figure that will be safe enough, as that is obviously where such things go.

Marcus swoops toward me, picks up the glass, and settles it on a coaster. That's an interesting move. It's the first hint of the fact that he wasn't raised rich. This man made every single one of the multiple billions of dollars he possesses, on his own. I have the mental image of someone in the past, probably a woman, telling him to make sure he uses a coaster. It's the first thing he's done that humanizes him a little.

"Sorry. I feel almost feral," I laugh. "I swear I was raised indoors."

"I'm sure I could find a place for you in a barn if that suits you better," he smiles warmly, taking the edge off what could be quite a harsh comment under other circumstances.

I giggle a little, then try to compose myself. "Thank you very much for agreeing to this interview. I know you are a busy man, and I know you rarely grant interviews to non-mainstream outlets."

"After reading your email, how could I refuse?" He slides his phone from a pocket inside his jacket, and brings it up to his face.

God. I am already blushing as I remember what I wrote. I needed to get his attention, so I couldn't be perfectly professional.

"Dear Mr. Waterstone,

My name is Charlie Crown, and I am an independent journalist. I wonder if you would do me the favor of granting me an interview. I am aware your immense wealth affords you limitless options when it comes to spending your valuable time, but I think the readership of my blog would be enriched beyond measure by just one of your words."

He pauses and looks at me. "Laying it on thick, Miss Crown? Or blatant sarcasm?"

"Remains to be seen, but I am hoping this interview is more penetrating than some others. People always ask you such basic questions. You seem bored when you answer them. I don't want to bore you, or my readership. I want to show the world exactly who you are."

Oh, that last part might have been a little too pointed. He narrows his eyes slightly, and I feel one of those jolts of excitement rush through me yet again. I am out of my league, and my depth, and comfort zone, and everything. I might even be out of my mind just being here in this room with this man. People like me don't ever get to associate with men like him.

His eyes flick back to the screen.

"If you could spare just fifteen minutes, we'd all be ever so grateful. I believe your combined operations result in a profit of roughly a million dollars every minute, so I know this is a fifteen-million-dollar request. Happy to arrange an IOU."

He looks up at me, dark eyes brimming with something that might be amusement. "I believe this is the definition of writing a check one cannot hope to cash, Miss Crown," he says. "But I will take this as a promissory note of sorts. You already owe me two million dollars."

I giggle. He doesn't smile.

"Are you serious? Wait. No. Of course you're not," I laugh, though my voice sounds strained this time. I am starting to consider that I might be playing a very unwise game with this man. I want to get his deepest, darkest secrets out of him. Instead, I've put myself in debt to him. Maybe it's not millions of dollars, but I have a feeling that he is going to make me pay, one way or another.

"You shouldn't make offers like this to men like me," he says. "We are inclined to take things seriously. You're rather cheeky, Miss Crown. Brash too. Too young to understand the potential consequences of some of your actions, but more than old enough to suffer them."

I have to stop blushing. It's a medical requirement at this point. If my face gets any hotter, it's going to start melting off.

"I apologize," I say, feeling rather like I'm in the principal's office. "I had to get your attention one way or another, and that's how I decided to do it."

"By making me want to take you over my knee and spank you until you are much more careful."

His threat shocks me a little, but I don't take it seriously. I think he is trying to assert his dominance, and he is doing so quite successfully. I feel very small, and very fortunate to be in his presence. He's very attractive, and very powerful, and he is toying with me using the limited information he has in that email.

"I'm just glad it worked," I say. "I'm here, and I have the opportunity to learn more about you."

"Yes," he says. "I suppose you do. What would you like to know, Miss Crown?"

"Is there any kind of business you wouldn't do?"

He nods. "Anything illegal," he says.

I feel a sense of disappointment. It's not like I expected him to straight-up admit that he's running an underground organized crime ring while also running the biggest legit business in the world.

"So you're not keen on doing crime?"

He cocks his head to the side and gives me the faintest of smiles. "Of course not," he says. "This is a rather artless line of questioning, Charlie."

I feel a frisson as he uses my first name for the first time. There's something very intimate about the way he forms the ‘rl' sound in my name. It's slightly exotic and very dominant. He says my name like he owns me.

I can see how he's able to cast his spell over so many desirable women. There are a lot of rumors about the women he dates. Unlike most rich men, Marcus Waterstone has absolutely no reputation for infidelity. He's a career bachelor, never married. Of course, the general consensus is that a man like him would never marry. He must be absolutely besieged by women wanting to become Mrs. Waterstone and bear his babies. Equally, he's probably surrounded by gold diggers who would no sooner get a ring on their finger than file for divorce. Even a fraction of his fortune would set anybody up for life.

"I apologize," I say. "I'm not accustomed to interviewing men of your caliber."

That should settle him down, make him think I'm just nervous rather than wildly inept.

"I think you had specific questions in mind when you wrote to me," he says. "And I would encourage you to ask them. I do have another meeting in seven minutes."

"Seven minutes! We're already halfway through!"

"Yes," he says, allowing himself a small smirk of amusement at my distress.

"There's never enough time for anything," I complain. "I could ask you so many questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as why you've never married, why you spend so much time in countries without extradition treaties with the US, whether or not your companies are trading with countries sanctioned by the government, what your favorite color is, whether or not you think it is ethical to be a billionaire, what your favorite meal is, whether or not you're secretly running a cabal of some sort…"

He answers me rapid-fire, just as I threw the questions at him.

"Never met the right woman, because those countries tend to have very good climates, of course not, red, ethics doesn't come into it, fish and chips, and no."

"Fish and chips? I didn't expect that answer."

"Battered protein is always a winner," he says. "Do you ask all your interviewees if they are criminals, and expect them to reveal that?"

"You'd be surprised what people will tell you. Sometimes people confess just because they get asked directly and it's never happened before."

"They sound like particularly dense people."

"Sure. Maybe. I don't know. I think there's an urge to be known. It's a human thing. It's not as much fun doing intensely fun crime if nobody knows."

"I am aware that there are a myriad of rumors around me, Miss Crown, but to be questioned so bluntly is a new experience for me." He glances at his phone again. "Two minutes. I'm afraid I will have to get going."

Two minutes. Goddamnit. Have I really wasted this opportunity this badly? I thought I was prepared, but the girl with the collar really threw me off, as did his real-life presence. I know he's not going to tell me a damn thing that would be even slightly incriminating. Marcus could give me polite, clean, charming answers all day long.

But he's not clean. I know that just by looking at him. I have the benefit of being in his presence, and that means I know him a little more than he wants to be known, and there's nothing he can do about it.

When I look at him, I get the sense that some if not all of the darker rumors about him are true. Marcus Waterstone can do anything. I can see that truth in his gaze. He's tolerating my shenanigans because I am the equivalent of a fluffy little bunny who just ran up to his big lion head, directly into his mouth, and now I'm searching his incisors for remnants of grass.

When I think about the darker accusations, that is a concerning revelation. This man has a reputation for dabbling in human trafficking. If that's true, then I am sitting across from one of the most powerful and dangerous men I'll ever know.

"Tell you what, Miss Crown," he says. "Ask me one last question."

One last question. I could ask him anything, but it has to be something very, very good. Something that will somehow salvage this absolute dumpster fire of a so-called interview.

"Would you take me out for a drink?"

The second I ask the question, I realize how presumptuous it is. I'm not asking him out for a drink. I'm asking him to take me out. On a scale of one to delusional, I am fully delusional right now. People are not going to believe I had the fucking nerve.

His dark eyes sweep up and down my body as he stands up. "Yes. Go and see my secretary. Tell her that you are going to be taken out tonight. Meet me at her desk at seven o'clock. Don't be late."

I can't believe it. I am so proud of myself. I had the nerve to ask him out, and he said yes! I'm going to have another shot at unravelling the rich puzzle that is Marcus Waterstone.

I decide to completely stay away from all of the questions I brought up earlier. Asking him about his potential criminal background isn't going to get me anywhere. He's not the sort of man who likes to brag about his evildoings. He's a more dangerous sort of creature who can keep his secrets to himself.

I don't bother going home. I don't have a nicer outfit to put on, not one that will still convey some kind of professionalism. Plus, by the time I get back home, and then come all the way back, that will mean an expensive Uber, or hours on the underground. It's easier to find a nearby cafe and stress eat the remnants of my paranoia away.

While I wait for him to be done with his workday, I get in touch with the people who tipped me off to Marcus Waterstone in the first place.

Libraryleaks is a network of journalists like me who pool information across the world. We are not known to the public in general, but every now and then we do something very special. Or at least, they do. This is my first time having any chance to contribute. Whatever I get on Marcus Waterstone will go into their databases and be available for other journalists to reference.

I want to get a lot more than one weird pic and the fact that his favorite food is allegedly fish and chips. I want to find something that links him to some of the rumored activities he is supposed to be involved in.

Opening an encrypted app on my phone designated by nothing other than a large L , my screen turns black with green chunky text. It's styled after the way computers used to look back in the 80's, very simple, and very secure.

There's nothing but a indicating I should be putting in my username. I login with my handle: Carebear .

A second appears below it.

I put my password in manually. The app doesn't allow you to use saved passwords. I know I've put it in correctly when a third appears.

I'm now connected to a network of completely anonymous people who have a goal of making the world a better place by sharing information. Wherever rich, powerful, corrupt people are, there are those like us undermining their efforts. We are their cleaners, their gardeners, their cooks. We are the ones who carry their bags, and sometimes we are the ones who send cheeky emails asking for interviews.

Initial meeting fine, second meeting booked.

The cursor blinks for a moment or two as my message hangs in void space.

Good work, Carebear. V.

I don't know who V is, and I will likely never know. This is how we keep one another safe, by cloistering ourselves in an impenetrable blanket of privacy. No personal information is ever requested, or shared.

I fell into Libraryleaks after a bad breakup left me feeling like I didn't have much purpose anymore. I thought I was going to get married, have kids, the usual fulfilling stuff. But Trent left me feeling far too fucked up and broken to even think about attempting anything like that again.

I log off and spend the rest of the day thinking about how I am going to make this drinks date with Marcus Waterstone count. The idea of seducing him comes to mind, though I don't know that I have the nerve. I can't imagine he'd want to fuck someone like me. He probably has a girlfriend in every city block—though I suppose availability of options never stopped Trent from being an unfaithful bastard.