Page 53 of Defending What's Mine

Asher

Protocols exist to keep me calm. At 12:00 Charlotte promised a quick pool check-in, then back here so we could grab lunch and go over the new CCTV routes I mapped after last night’s charity circus. Five minutes late isn’t a crisis. She’s occasionally late when Melanie gets chatty.

But at exactly 12:05 I start the clock in my head—an old habit from convoy duty. Every five-minute block without status equals a graduated response. First a friendly text, then a confirmation ping, then physical recon.

12:07

All good down there?

Nothing. I refresh the thread.

12:11

Need your ETA. Food’s on the way.

Still nothing. I set my phone face-down and try to focus on copying security footage from last night. Wade lurking, Nancymicromanaging, Charlotte glowing in that lethal red dress, but adrenaline edges into my bloodstream like black ink in water.

12:17

Charlotte, respond.

Blue ticks show delivered but no bubbles. The missing three blinking dots feel like a weight on my chest.

By 12:20 the clock inside my skull is a siren. I stow the computer in the safe, lock the suite, and take the back stairwell two at a time.

Humidity slams me like a wet blanket when I step outside. Umbrellas flutter, kids squeal, someone’s Bluetooth speaker hums reggae.

I sweep the nearest cabanas. There’s no teal sundress, no dark hair. That internal siren cranks a notch.

Melanie Mason is easy to spot, reclining like a queen bee on her chaise, neon sarong bright as a high-vis vest. She’s livestreaming herself tasting an oversized slushy in three-second bursts of influencer hyperbole.

I plant myself between her and the sun. “Melanie.”

She jerks, hits ‘end’ on the stream. “You scared the b-Jesus out of me, Asher. Can you not materialize like the Terminator?”

“Where’s Charlotte?” My voice is flat, controlled.

She squints behind gold aviators. “Spa boutique with her mom. They wanted to sniff candles. She left, what… twenty minutes ago? Half hour?”

“Exact time,” I insist.

She wrinkles her nose. “I wasn’t staring at the clock. Sometime after noon.”

Charlotte had explicit orders. She does not deviate without a text. “Did you see her leave this deck?”

“Yes.” She starts scrolling on her phone as if bored already. “She hugged me, said her mom texted for some retail therapy. Why the SWAT interrogation?”

I ignore the dig, send another text. Nothing. Screen says Delivered 12:07, still unread.

“Phone calls going through?” Melanie asks, false casual.

“Going to voicemail.” I dial as demonstration—one ring, straight to inbox. Either off, smashed, or no service.This is bad. “Did you notice anyone near her? Anyone following?”

Melanie shrugs. “Just other guests. Relax, Kevlar Ken. She’s fine.”

“Humor me.” I scan the cocktail tables, the gate to the spa wing, the discrete lens of a security camera perched above. Resort staff in teal polos circulate. None alert my instinct, but instinct whispers Charlotte wouldn’t vanish voluntarily.

Melanie sits up, presses a playful hand to my bicep. “You, me, margaritas. It’ll take your mind?—”

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