Page 10 of Lady and the Hitman
They’d done it like they’d done it before.
And I couldn’t help thinking how many people were probably out there whispering that maybe—just maybe—this was justice.
Mina stirred the ice in her drink with her straw, like she could hear the thoughts hammering through my skull.
Then, casually: “You know, mine showed up three nights after I sent the letter.”
I blinked at her.
“What?”
“My Alpha,” she said, like it was the most natural topic in the world. “Three days. No confirmation, no heads-up. Just a knock at the door and a man who looked like my own personal reckoning.”
I stared at her, throat tightening. “You never told me how long it took.”
“You never asked.” She smiled behind the rim of her glass. “You were too busy pretending you didn’t care.”
“I don’t care.”
She laughed. “Sure. That’s why your pupils dilated just now like you heard the devil say your name.”
I looked down at my keyboard.
Three days.
I’d sent the email three days ago.
The realization hit low in my stomach, like hunger or heat. I wasn’t sure which.
Mina reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny glass vial—rose oil, her signature—and rolled it along her wrists before dabbing some behind her ears.
“You should go home early,” she said lightly. “Maybe clean your sheets. Shave your legs. Light a candle. You know, just in case.”
I gave her a look. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.” Her eyes met mine, steady and serious for the first time that morning. “I’m trying to tell you that if he’s coming … he’s already chosen you.”
She stood and tossed her empty cup in the trash. “And it doesn’t matter how many think pieces you write between now and then. You asked for something. Now you have to decide if you meant it.”
She paused, then glanced back over her shoulder with a sly glint in her eye. “And just so you know—these guys? They’re not broke mercenaries living in trailers with tactical knives and trauma. They’re loaded. Most of them are ex-military, yeah, but not grunt-level. Special forces. Private security contracts. Black site work. Some of them were pulling seven figures before they even hit thirty.”
I blinked. “What, like … billionaires?”
“Some of them,” she said, like it was no big deal. “Private islands. Offshore accounts. Fuck-you money. If they like you? Really like you? They’ll fly you to Paris for breakfast and drop you off in Charleston by dinner. Youthink your little townhouse is going to impress a man who has a helipad on his yacht?”
She smirked, stepping closer again for one last jab. “So don’t act like you’re too evolved to want that. You can rage against the system all day long, Zara. But don’t pretend you wouldn’t love to be ruined in satin sheets and silk ropes on a jet that cost more than your childhood home.”
She walked off before I could respond.
I watched her go, her jumpsuit swaying, and felt the full weight of her words settle over me.
Three days.
No confirmation. No reply.
But maybe that was the confirmation.
I sat there for another ten minutes, typing nothing. Writing nothing. Just staring at the bright white screen and feeling the slow crawl of nerves rise in the back of my throat.
