chapter 8
693 Words
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The morning sun rose like an apology—soft, golden, and too late to fix anything.
Daisy stood barefoot in the kitchen of Charles’s penthouse, watching the espresso drip into a glass mug. Her hands were steady now, but only on the outside. Inside, her nerves twisted like thread pulled too tight.
She hadn’t slept. Not really. She’d laid in bed, Charles’s arm resting loosely around her waist, while her mind spiraled back into Harlem alleyways and unpaid debts.
When Charles walked in, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, she didn’t look up.
“I don’t want anyone hurt,” she said quietly.
“I’m not sending a hitman,” he replied dryly. “Despite what the tabloids think, I prefer legal means.”
She turned then, meeting his gaze. “But you are doing something.”
“I had my team pull Kamal’s file. He’s got records—minor stuff, nothing that’s stuck. He’s slippery. But not invisible.”
Daisy winced. “He won’t back down easily.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Charles said. “He just has to disappear from your life.”
His certainty should’ve comforted her. It didn’t.
“People like Kamal don’t just back off,” she said. “They dig. Manipulate. And if they don’t find dirt on you, they look for the people around you.”
Charles tilted his head. “Are you saying someone helped him find you?”
Daisy hesitated.
There had been something strange about that text. The phrasing. The timing. And more than that—something too precise in how Kamal had framed his words.
“You think someone leaked your location?” Charles pressed.
“I changed phones. Changed numbers. There’s no way Kamal could’ve found me unless someone gave him the breadcrumb trail.”
His brow furrowed. “Who would do that?”
She didn’t want to say it. But the name was already forming.
“Lana.”
Charles blinked. “Your roommate?”
“My former roommate. We were close. But she started asking questions when she saw the uptick in my bank account. The designer coats. The... you.” She exhaled shakily. “I told her I was freelancing. But she didn’t buy it.”
Charles’s voice dropped. “You think she sold you out?”
“I think she was desperate for rent. And curious. That’s a dangerous combination.”
He picked up his phone again. “Give me her full name.”
“Charles—”
“This isn’t a game, Daisy.”
The look in his eyes wasn’t cold—it was lethal. Controlled rage. The kind you only saw in men who weren’t used to feeling helpless.
She gave him the name.
Within seconds, he was on a call with someone named Remy. Quiet tones. Commands masked as suggestions. All professional, but with razor edges.
Daisy wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly like a child again. Small. Exposed.
By the time Charles hung up, his expression had returned to neutral.
“She works at a call center in Midtown,” he said. “Remy will tail her. If she’s involved, we’ll know.”
“And then what?” Daisy whispered.
“Then I’ll decide how generous I’m feeling.”
The silence stretched between them.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough,” he said. “I know what fear looks like when someone’s lived with it too long. I know what it’s like to want to run from who you were.”
He stepped closer, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“And I know I’m not ready to let you go.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
Before she could respond, Charles’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down—and went still.
“What is it?” she asked.
He showed her the screen.
A photo.
It was grainy. A street cam still.
Kamal. Standing outside her old apartment. Talking to Lana.
Daisy’s blood ran cold.
And then the message below the image loaded.
“He’s not alone. We have a new problem. Call me.”
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- Writer
