Page 81 of Lady and the Hitman
My voice came out flat. Too rehearsed.
“And that senator’s statement—it’s performative, sure, but there’s truth under it, right?” he continued. “These women don’t need some grizzled ex–special ops guy feeding them affirmations and then sleeping with them. They need therapy. Community. Real support.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Images of Ronan flashed behind my lids—his mouth, his hands, the way he’d made me feel like I wasn’t just seen, but claimed. My thighs still ached. So did my conscience.
“You there?” Chris asked.
“Yeah,” I said, too fast. “Sorry. Just pulling up some sources.”
“Great,” he said. “Give me that heat. The Zara voice. A little fire in your belly. Our readers expect you to rip this apart. Don’t hold back.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “You’ll have something later today.”
He let out a relieved laugh. “Knew I could count on you.”
The call ended, and I stood there for a long moment, the phone still in my hand, my heart thudding like it had secrets to keep.
Because what I really wanted to say—the truth clawing at the back of my throat—was this:
Sometimes the grizzled ex–special ops guy is exactly what a woman needs.
And sometimes … the most dangerous thing isn’t being touched.
It’s being truly understood.
I dropped the phone onto the bed like it might burn me and crossed to my desk in a fog. The laptop blinked awake under my fingers, screen casting pale blue light on skin still marked by Miami. I opened a blank document, the cursor blinking in accusation.
Title: Alpha Mail and the Politics of Panic.
Subtitle: When Power Wears a Smile.
I stared at it.
The words were there—somewhere. I could hear them in my head. The cadence. The indictment. The righteous fury they all expected from me. I could invoke the 19th-century white slavery panic, cite FOSTA-SESTA fallout, unpack the way moral panic always seemed to land squarely on women’s backs, especially when sex entered the equation.
I could do it in my sleep.
But I couldn’t type.
Not yet.
Instead, I sat. Let the cursor blink. Let the room fill with the sound of my own silence. And the truth I didn’t want to name.
Because what if it wasn’t predatory?
What if it wasn’t exploitation?
What if, for one aching moment under a palm tree in Miami, it had felt like salvation?
The thought was dangerous. Seductive. It slid under my skin like Ronan’s touch—warm and unwelcome in equal measure.
I was still staring at the empty screen when my phone buzzed again. A different ringtone. Campus line.
I answered. “Hello?”
“Professor Hughes?” A cheerful voice I recognized but couldn’t immediately place. “It’s Nadine from the history department office at College of Charleston. Sorry to call so early.”
“No worries,” I said automatically, adjusting my tone to professor mode even as my stomach twisted. “What’s up?”
