Page 80 of Lady and the Hitman

The article had dropped overnight—part outrage, part pearl-clutching, and entirely tailored to stir the pot. Apparently, someone in the senator’s office had gotten wind of Alpha Mail. Not by name, of course. The service wasn’t mentioned directly. But the language was clear enough for anyone familiar with the concept.

“A morally bankrupt pipeline of intimacy-for-hire, marketed to lonely, liberal-leaning women who should know better,” the senator had written in a scathing statement released to the press. “We cannot allow transactional relationships to masquerade as personal growth or healing.”

I blinked. Read it again.

By mid-morning, the story was trending on Twitter.Pundits were weighing in. Threads were unraveling. And my inbox had exploded with messages from readers, students, colleagues—and then one fromThe Journal, the digital publication that syndicates “State of Her Union.”

Subject: Your take on Alpha Mail?

From: Chris Reinhardt

Time: 9:04 AM

Zara—

I’m sure you’ve seen the Garrett statement.

Can we get a quick turnaround column from you? Something sharp and historically grounded that contextualizes this kind of moral panic—especially as it pertains to women, power, and personal agency. You’re our strongest voice on these issues.

Would love to run it immediately. Let me know.

—Chris

I stared at the screen, pulse ticking.

The irony made my skin prickle.

They wanted me to write the official take.

Me—who’d been on a private jet just hours ago with a man I met through the very service now under fire.

A man who’d ruined me with his mouth.

A man whose last name I now knew.

A man I was seeing again tonight.

And no one—not my editor, not my readers, not even my mother—had the faintest clue.

My phone lit up with Chris’s name before I could even type a response.

I let it ring twice, composed my face like it mattered, and answered. “Hey.”

“Zara,” he said, out of breath like he’d just jogged across the newsroom. “I emailed, but figured you’d want to talk. This thing is exploding. And it’s right in your backyard.”

“Yeah,” I said carefully, tugging the sheet higher over my legs as I sat up in bed. “I saw.”

He didn’t wait for me to elaborate. “It’s outrageous, right? The whole setup. Escort services rebranded as empowerment experiences? It’s so ... predatory. And the targeting—single, educated women who think this is growth? That’s where it gets truly insidious.”

I made a sound that could’ve passed for agreement.

Chris forged on. “You’re the perfect person to hit this. We need that signature Zara Hughes blend of righteous fire and historical depth. Put it in context—tie it to past panics about women’s independence, sex work, all of it.”

My stomach twisted. I stood, still clutching the phone, and padded barefoot toward the window. The Charleston morning was heavy with humidity. Spanish moss clung to the trees like secrets, and the wind rattled the glass like it knew I was lying.

“What do you think?” he asked, pausing just long enough for me to answer. “Isn’t this exactly the kind of exploitation we’ve been warning about for years?”

I swallowed. “Of course. It’s ... deeply problematic.”