Page 6 of Lady and the Hitman

I stared at the dark window, wondering how many more soft men would try to fix me before one finally tried to ruin me.

Why was I becoming so obsessed?

3

Charleston was already sweating before I was.

The air wrapped itself around my shoulders the second I stepped outside, warm and clinging.

Summer mornings here had a way of feeling both sleepy and swollen—too quiet, too bright. The city glowed in that syrupy golden way tourists romanticized, but for locals, it meant one thing: another day of enduring beauty while your skin stuck to itself.

I unlocked my bike from the wrought-iron railing in front of my townhouse and tossed my satchel over one shoulder. The leather stuck to the back of my blouse immediately. I was already cursing by the time I made it two blocks.

Charleston was a paradox—pastel and blood-soaked. The streets were cobbled with history, some of it picturesque, most of it rotting beneath the surface. Horse-drawn carriages clopped along King Street like a commercial for Southern charm, while gentrified espresso shops offered $18 pour-overs in the sameneighborhoods where Black families had been priced out of their generational homes.

The city smiled through its teeth.

And I smiled right back.

I turned onto Calhoun and pedaled past Marion Square. A handful of vendors were already setting up beneath tents for the farmers market that would open in a few hours. Sunlight bounced off the glass windows of The Dewberry, and somewhere to my left, a student was playing violin on the corner for tips. Her case lay open, a few ones fluttering in the breeze. A violin, I thought, in this heat. Jesus.

By the time I got to Broad, my hair had curled at the roots and sweat was blooming down my spine. I wore my usual summer armor—linen button-down, high-waisted trousers, and dark sunglasses to hide the fatigue under my eyes. I looked put-together enough. Polished. Intentional.

A walking contradiction in 90-degree heat.

Just before East Bay, I locked up the bike outside the co-working space, took a long pull from my aluminum water bottle, and forced myself to breathe like I hadn’t spent the night masturbating to a fantasy man and rejecting my ex-boyfriend in the same hour.

The lobby was cool, mercifully. Wide windows let in too much light, but the AC made up for it. A coffee bar in the corner steamed and hissed. People in muted blazers and oversized headphones passed through with mission-driven urgency. Every other laptop bore a sticker that said something likeMake Art Not AlgorithmsorDecolonize Everything.

The receptionist, Jade, greeted me with a tight smile. “Morning, Zara.”

“Morning.” I flashed her one back, less tight but equally hollow.

I made my way upstairs to the second floor, where my regular table sat beneath an arched window overlooking the harbor. On a clear day you could see all the way to Fort Sumter, a reminder that this city had once fired the first shot of a war it still hadn’t stopped waging in spirit. The military presence here wasn’t just history—it still pulsed quietly beneath the surface. Navy officers in uniform grabbing lunch downtown. Retired generals sitting on nonprofit boards. Soldiers returning to old ghosts.

I took my laptop out, placed my notebook beside it, and opened a fresh document.

The cursor blinked.

So did I.

What kind of man wants a woman like me?

The thought slid in like sweat beneath a collar—familiar, irritating, impossible to ignore.

I typedThe New Language of Militarized Recruitmentas a working title and tried to focus. I had research pulled, quotes flagged, a three-point thesis outlined in my notes. I knew what I wanted to say. I always did.

But all I could think about was him.

Or the idea of him.

The man I’d written for. The man I’d summoned with that letter. The man who might still be out there, reading it.

Judging it.

Planning his next move.

“You look like you’ve been arguing with yourself all morning.”