Chapter 6: Asset management

The first panic attack happened in a bathroom.

It was small, tucked behind Dexter’s private office, designed for convenience rather than comfort. Concrete walls. A mirror that reflected too much light. No window, of course.

Charlie had gone there to breathe.

He’d learned the early signs pressure behind the eyes, the faint buzzing in his ears, the sense that his body was slipping a half second behind his thoughts. He’d excused himself quietly from the meeting Emily had insisted he sit through, murmured sorry out of habit, and slipped away before anyone could stop him.

The lock clicked.

The sound was final.

His chest seized.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sobbing, no collapse to the floor. Just the sudden, terrifying inability to pull in a full breath. His lungs stuttered, shallow and useless, as if they’d forgotten their job.

He braced both hands on the sink, knuckles whitening. He focused on the mirror, on the familiar face looking back at him too pale, eyes too large, lips pressed tight as if holding himself together through force alone.

Four in. Six out.

It didn’t work.

The room felt smaller by the second. The hum of the lights grew louder, drilling into his skull. His thoughts fragmented his mother’s hospital room, the cameras, Dexter’s voice correcting his smile, the word asset echoing where his name should be.

“I’m safe,” he told himself weakly. “I’m not in trouble. I’m…”

His vision tunneled.

The door rattled.

“Charlie.”

Dexter’s voice. Close. Sharp.

“I need you to open the door,” Dexter said. Not loud. Controlled. Command disguised as calm.

He tried to answer. Nothing came out. Another rattle harder this time.

“Charlie,” Dexter repeated, irritation edging into his tone. “This is inefficient.”

That word inefficient cut through him like a blade.

Not are you hurt?

Not what’s wrong?

Just inefficiency a deviation from function.

His hands shook violently as he fumbled with the lock. His fingers felt numb, clumsy, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore. The latch slipped once, then again. Finally, the door swung open.

Dexter stood there, jacket already discarded, sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly out of place in a way that suggested impatience rather than disarray. His expression was set into displeasure until his eyes landed on Charlie’s face.

Something shifted, not softness, not panic. “What happened?” Dexter asked.

Charlie shook his head, breath hitching. His knees threatened to give out.

Dexter swore under his breath and stepped forward, catching Charlie by the arm before he could collapse. His grip was firm but not painful, anchoring rather than restraining, fingers warm against Charlie’s chilled skin.

“Sit,” Dexter ordered, guiding him to the closed toilet lid.

He obeyed, hands trembling violently now that he wasn’t holding himself upright.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Dexter said, crouching in front of him. Their eyes were level, Too close, too exposed. “Slow down.”

“I…can’t,” Charlie whispered. “I’m trying, I just…”

His chest tightened again, panic spiking at the failure to comply even now.

Dexter exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed at the situation, if not at Charlie himself.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll do it my way.”

He reached out and placed two fingers lightly against Charlie’s wrist. He gasped, The touch startled him.

It was unexpected, precise, intimate in a way Dexter rarely allowed. His pulse hammered beneath those fingers, wild and uncoordinated.

“Count with me,” Dexter said. “Out loud.”

He stared at him, disoriented, mind lagging behind the instruction.

“Now,” Dexter snapped.

“One,” Charlie rasped.

“Again.”

“One… two…”

Dexter kept his fingers there, steady, grounding. His gaze never left Charlie’s face, tracking every shallow breath, every tremor, every sign of distress with unnerving focus.

“Good,” Dexter said after a moment. “Slower.”

Time stretched strangely. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes like hours. He clung to the counting because it was something external, something he didn’t have to feel to obey. eventually, his breathing evened out, the crushing pressure easing into something dull and survivable.

When it was over, he sagged forward, exhausted.

Dexter straightened immediately, stepping back as if the contact itself were a mistake.

“What triggered it?” he asked.

Charlie wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves. Shame burned hotter than the panic had, crawling up his throat and settling behind his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just everything felt too loud.”

Dexter frowned. “You were sitting in on a briefing.”

“I know.”

“You weren’t speaking.”

“I know,” Charlie repeated, quieter.

Dexter studied him for a long moment, something calculating in his eyes.

“This can’t happen in public,” he said finally. “Not like that.”

He flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not an apology,” Dexter replied. “That’s a liability.” The words landed heavy, familiar.

“I’ll adjust your schedule,” Dexter continued. “Less exposure. Shorter appearances. You’ll attend therapy twice a week.”

Charlie looked up sharply. “Therapy?”

“Yes.”

Relief and fear tangled in his chest.

“It will be monitored,” Dexter added. “Notes forwarded to my office.”

Of course.

“Okay,” Charlie said. What else could he say?

Dexter turned toward the door, then paused.

“You better eat,” he said without looking back. “Skipping meals increases symptoms.”

Then he left.

His vision blurred, he just sat there staring at the door.

The therapist’s office was off site, discreet, and expensive.

Dr. Halloway had a gentle voice and kind eyes that didn’t linger too long. She asked open ended questions and waited through Charlie’s silences without pressing, without filling the space for him.

He said very little. He felt like running away, the last thing he needed was to say anything Dexter could use to tighten his hold over him.

He talked around things instead of through them, stress, adjustment, exhaustion. He didn’t mention his father. Or the contract. Or the way Dexter’s presence made him feel both safer and smaller at the same time. He felt stupid for feeling that way.

He didn’t mention the dissociation. The lost time. The sketches that appeared without memory.

When the session ended, he felt wrung out and strangely empty, like he’d been hollowed rather than helped.

Back in the car, Jonah handed Dexter a slim folder. “Summary only,” Jonah said quietly.

Dexter skimmed it, jaw tightening slightly.

That night, Dexter worked late. He knew because the lights in the office stayed on, because voices carried faintly through the walls, because Dexter passed by his room once without stopping.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow in a way sleep couldn’t touch. Sometime past midnight, his door opened. Dexter didn’t knock.

He pushed himself upright, heart racing, watching Dexter cautiously.

“You should be asleep,” Dexter said, irritation threaded through the words.

“I was trying,” Charlie replied.

Dexter stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn’t turn on the lights. “You didn’t disclose relevant information in therapy,” Dexter said.

Charlie’s stomach dropped. “You said it was monitored.”

“It is.”

“I didn’t lie,” he replied quickly. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

Dexter studied him in the dimness. “You dissociate.”

Charlie froze.

“That wasn’t a question,” Dexter added. “You lose time. You withdraw. You comply excessively.”

His throat tightened. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“I know,” Dexter said. The admission surprised them both.

Dexter looked away first. “This makes you… difficult to manage,” he continued, regaining his composure. “Which means I need to adjust my approach.”

Charlie’s hands clenched in the sheets. “I don’t want to be difficult.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Dexter replied. Then, after a pause, “I said you were fragile and that’s a problem.” The word stung.

Dexter exhaled slowly. “Tomorrow, you’ll start media training with Emily again, Short sessions and Controlled environments.”

He nodded, numb.

Dexter turned to leave.

“Dexter,” Charlie said before he could stop himself.

Dexter paused, hand on the door.

“Yes?”

“Why me?” Charlie asked. His voice shook. “You could have chosen anyone.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

“Because you don’t fight,” he said finally. “And because people like you don’t survive unless someone decides you’re worth keeping.” The door closed.

Charlie lay back in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

The truth settled slowly, heavily not the cruelty of Dexter’s words, but the certainty behind them. Dexter Ashcroft wasn’t protecting him out of kindness. He was managing and using him. And the most dangerous part was this…

Somewhere along the way, Charlie had started believing that being managed and used was the same as being safe.