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CHARLOTTE

T he heat wraps around us the moment we step out of the warehouse, sticky and suffocating. It’s almost a relief compared to the stuffy air inside, but I’m not looking for relief. I’m looking for the guy who’s been trailing us.

I don’t tell Sophie yet. It’s better if she figures it out herself. She has to figure it out herself. She’s been silent since we left the warehouse, trudging along like the weight of the night is dragging her down. Maybe she knows. Maybe she doesn’t.

In the back of the car, I tell the driver to take us to the hotel. The chaos of the city filters through the windows, but my mind stays locked on the man following us. He could be anyone—agency, enemy, someone in between—but he’s out there, and I know he’s not far. Sophie sits beside me, her body stiff, her eyes fixed on the blur of lights outside. She doesn’t say a word. Neither do I.

Back at the hotel, she storms inside like the heat followed her in, dumping her frustration into the room. She flings herself onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the force. Her limbs go slack, but it’s not the kind of relaxation that brings relief. It’s the exhaustion of someone holding herself together by a thread. Her gaze stays locked on the ceiling, her chest rising and falling faster than it should. I can feel her anger crackling through the room.

I lean against the doorframe, letting the silence stretch. “You’re angry.”

She doesn’t respond.

“That’s good,” I say, my voice cold enough to slice through her quiet. “Use it. You’ll need it.”

I step forward, keeping my tone even but firm. “I know you think I’m being hard on you. But you hesitated with Smith. And you were unfocused tonight. You can’t afford to hesitate, Sophie. Not now, not ever. You know that.”

Her head turns slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. “I get it.”

“You don’t.” I move closer, shrinking the distance between us. “This isn’t just about you. Every hesitation, every second you waste, every time you miss—it puts us both at risk. And if you think I’m going to let you fail just because you’re having a bad day, you’re wrong.”

“Who said I was having a bad day?”

“It’s pretty apparent, Soph—you don’t have to say anything. It’s in how you’re being .”

“And how am I being?”

“Emotional.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a human who has feelings. You’ll have to forgive me for not being a robot like you.”

“Emotions are like stilettos—sharp and dangerous. Show them off, and someone will use them against you.”

“Oh, God. Another of your rules.” She scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re comparing the way I feel to shoes. But then, it’s you, so…”

I shrug. “What? It’s true. The only thing that should be on display is your confidence—and maybe your shoes. This is business, love. Although, it’s good advice for life in general, if you ask me…”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. ”

Her eyes shift to her phone, the look in them empty, distant. But as she reads, her spine straightens, telling me everything I need to know.

Five minutes later, she shoves the phone in her pocket. Her shoulders are squared now, her expression unreadable. The anger hasn’t gone—it’s been buried, refocused.

That’s fine. Tonight, she can stew. Tomorrow, there’ll be no room for it.