Chapter 16: We Do This Properly

The room falls into a silence that doesn’t belong.

Not the kind people pay for — not the curated quiet of luxury penthouses and soundproof glass — but something heavier. Denser. Like the air itself has shifted.

Like something irreversible has just been said.

I don’t move.

I just watch her.

Charlotte.

Scarlett.

Lottie.

Too many names for one woman.

Too many versions of the same person standing right in front of me — and somehow, none of them feel wrong.

This is my second life.

The words don’t settle. They don’t make sense. They don’t fit into anything rational, and yet they echo in my head with an unsettling clarity.

I should question it.

I should dismantle it, pick it apart until it falls into something explainable.

I don’t.

Because I’ve seen it too.

Not in words.

Not like this.

But in fragments. In moments that never made sense until now.

Her body in my arms.

Too still.

Too cold.

Her voice — faint, strained.

Don’t take me there.

I did anyway.

My jaw tightens.

I thought I was saving her.

I wasn’t.

A slow breath leaves me as I drag a hand down my face, forcing myself back into something controlled. Measured. This is where I operate best — not in whatever this is.

But my gaze drifts back to her again, lingering longer than it should.

Studying.

Memorising.

As if looking away might somehow reset everything.

“You’re serious,” I say at last.

It isn’t a question.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Of course she doesn’t.

Something about that — the certainty in it — settles deeper than any explanation could.

I lean back slightly, fingers resting against the arm of the chair, grounding myself in something physical while my mind works through the rest.

The dream.

No — not a dream.

A memory.

It replays whether I want it to or not. The weight of her in my arms. The urgency. The frustration of not having the resources to fix something that was already beyond saving.

Failure has never sat well with me.

But this?

This is different.

This wasn’t a deal gone wrong or a miscalculation.

This was death.

Hers.

And if she’s right—

It wasn’t an accident.

My gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly.

“Start from the beginning,” I say.

The words come out steady. Controlled. A command, not a request.

Because if there’s even a fraction of truth in this — and I’m beginning to think there is — then I need everything.

Every detail.

Every inconsistency.

Every moment she ignored.

She watches me for a second, like she’s weighing something.

Trust, maybe.

Dangerous thing to hand over so easily.

But she does.

And as she starts talking, something shifts — subtle, unwelcome, but undeniable.

I listen.

Not passively.

Not politely.

I listen.

And the more she speaks, the more the pieces begin to align with things I’ve already noticed — things I dismissed earlier because they didn’t quite fit.

The husband.

Too polished.

Too rehearsed.

The friend.

Too comfortable.

Too present.

And then—

The door.

No answer.

Despite the fact that I know he was inside.

My jaw tightens.

That alone would’ve been enough.

By the time she finishes, the silence returns — heavier this time. Sharper.

I stand, not out of restlessness, but habit. Movement helps me think. Helps me organise what’s already falling into place.

Because whether this sounds insane or not…

The risk is real.

And I don’t deal in risks.

I eliminate them.

I stop in front of her, my gaze steady.

“You said they were trying to kill you,” I say.

A beat passes.

“Now you’re telling me they already did.”

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Good.

That simplifies things.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her again — but differently this time.

Not with curiosity.

Not with irritation.

With calculation.

“You realise what this means.”

Her brows draw together, but I don’t wait for her to respond.

“If they succeeded once, they’ll try again.”

The words settle between us, quiet but absolute.

“And this time…”

I pause, just long enough for it to land.

“They won’t miss.”

There’s no drama in it. No exaggeration.

Just fact.

I take a step closer, closing the distance just enough.

“You don’t get to act on emotion anymore,” I continue, my tone firm, deliberate. “No impulsive decisions. No storming off with kitchen knives.”

A brief glance.

She knows exactly what I’m referring to.

“That’s how people end up dead.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter — but far more deliberate:

“That’s how you died.”

The silence that follows is different.

Heavier.

Final.

I let it sit. Let it settle into something real for her, the same way it already has for me.

Because this changes everything.

I straighten slightly, the decision already made long before I voice it.

Because whether she understands it yet or not—

This is no longer just her problem.

“We do this properly,” I say.

The word hangs there.

We.

Not optional.

Not negotiable.

Controlled.

Calculated.

Untraceable.

My gaze locks onto hers, unwavering.

“And when we’re done…”

A slight tilt of my head, something colder slipping through.

“They don’t get another chance.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“They don’t get another life.”