Chapter 17: Make Them Panic

The front door clicks shut behind me at exactly 7:00 AM.

The penthouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

For a brief moment, I just stand there, keys still in my hand, taking it in. The familiar space feels… different. Not because anything has changed — but because I have.

I’m not the same woman who left here at 3:16 AM.

I move further inside, slipping my heels off by the door, my body still heavy from exhaustion and whatever remnants of medication are lingering in my system. The faint scent of antiseptic clings to my skin, barely masking the metallic memory of blood.

I barely make it three steps before I hear it—

Footsteps.

Fast.

Rushed.

Panicked.

“Charlotte—”

Vance appears from the hallway, his eyes wide, hair slightly dishevelled, shirt half-buttoned like he threw it on in a hurry. His gaze drops to me instantly, scanning, searching.

Relief floods his face so quickly it almost looks convincing.

Almost.

“Oh my god, Charlotte—what happened?” he breathes, closing the distance between us. “There was blood—so much blood—I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought—”

He cuts himself off, like he doesn’t want to finish the sentence.

Like he already has.

I look at him.

Really look at him.

And for the first time, I don’t feel comfort.

I feel… nothing.

“I went to the hospital,” I say plainly, my voice calm to the point of indifference.

It throws him.

I can see it.

“You… what?” he asks, blinking.

“I woke up at 3:16,” I continue, slipping my bag onto the console table like this is any other morning. “You weren’t in bed.”

A beat.

“So I went on my own.”

Silence stretches between us.

His expression shifts — subtle, but I catch it. Something flickers behind his eyes. Not just concern.

Calculation.

“Oh—baby, you should’ve called me,” he says quickly, stepping closer again. “I would’ve taken you, you shouldn’t have gone through that alone—”

“I didn’t need you.”

The words slip out smoothly.

Effortlessly.

They land harder than I expect.

Vance pauses.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

“I’m fine,” I add, brushing past him before he can recover. “It was a miscarriage.”

There it is.

Out in the open.

I don’t look back at him as I walk further into the apartment, but I can feel it — the way the air shifts, the way his presence lingers behind me.

Processing.

Adjusting.

Panicking.

Good.

“Charlotte…” he says more quietly this time.

I turn just enough to glance at him over my shoulder.

“They said it could’ve been worse if I didn’t get there when I did,” I add, almost casually.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“Worse?” he repeats.

I shrug lightly.

“Haemorrhaging. Shock. Death.”

I let the last word sit there for a moment longer than necessary before turning away completely.

Behind me, I hear him swallow.

⸻

Anya appears a few minutes later.

Of course she does.

She’s quieter than usual, hovering near the kitchen entrance like she’s unsure whether she should come closer or keep her distance. Her eyes dart between me and Vance, reading the room, trying to piece together what she’s missed.

“Char…” she starts softly. “Are you okay?”

I glance up from the glass of water in my hand.

There’s a time where that voice would’ve comforted me.

Grounded me.

Now it just sounds… rehearsed.

“I’m fine,” I say simply.

She frowns.

“You don’t look fine,” she presses, taking a hesitant step forward.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her.

“You should’ve heard me at 3:16 this morning,” I reply.

Her entire body stills.

Vance goes quiet behind her.

“I was in a lot of pain,” I continue, my tone light — almost conversational. “Strange how empty the apartment felt.”

A beat.

“I couldn’t find either of you.”

Silence.

Thick.

Uncomfortable.

Anya lets out a small, awkward laugh. “I must’ve… slept through it,” she says quickly.

“Must have,” I echo.

Our eyes meet.

She looks away first.

Of course she does.

⸻

The rest of the morning passes in a strange, almost surreal rhythm.

Vance doesn’t leave my side for long.

Anya lingers more than usual.

They’re both watching me.

Careful.

Measured.

Waiting.

And I let them.

I move through the apartment like everything is normal — making tea, tidying small things, answering the occasional message on my phone. Calm. Composed. Predictable.

It unsettles them more than any outburst ever could.

My phone vibrates against the counter.

Once.

Then again.

I glance down at the screen.

Unknown number.

But I already know what it is.

My pulse steadies instead of quickens as I answer the call, turning slightly away from them.

“Hello?”

“Miss Hawkins?” a professional voice greets. “We’ve completed the analysis you requested.”

My grip tightens slightly around the phone.

“And?” I ask.

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“The paint sample you provided contains a significant concentration of lead compounds,” the voice continues. “Levels that are considered highly toxic.”

I close my eyes briefly.

There it is.

Proof.

“It’s consistent with formulations that were banned internationally in the 1970s.”

Silence fills my chest.

Not shock.

Not fear.

Something colder.

Something sharper.

I open my eyes slowly, my gaze drifting across the room — landing on Vance… then Anya.

Both of them watching me.

Waiting.

I let a small smile touch my lips.

Subtle.

Controlled.

Terrifying.

“Thank you,” I say softly, before ending the call.

When I turn back to face them fully, my expression is calm.

Unbothered.

Untouched.

But inside—

Everything has changed.

And for the first time…

I’m absolutely certain.

They didn’t just betray me.

They tried to kill me.