“He died.”
The air I pull into my lungs doesn’t feel filtered. It feels thick and jaded and makes tears burn the backs of my eyes. I swallow the bile that coats my throat, my stomach rolling.
“Mason never told me. He didn’t want anyone involved in case it came out. He worried I could lose my job.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing but air comes out.
“Nina—”
“Why are you telling me this, Charlie?” I finally ask, swiping the stray tear from my face.
His jaw ticks, his mask slipping back into place. “Because the wrong person found out. Someone who saw it as an opportunity.”
“What? Who?”
“Cara. The woman who owned your studio. She was the only other person who knew besides Mase, Lance and Vinny. Mason thought if you could be linked to Cara through the studio, it would look too convenient. If it came out, you could be seen to have been aware of the situation.”
I shake my head, not understanding. “Cara? Do you mean Erin? Erin O’Connor who owns my studio.”
Erin knew about this?
“I can’t tell you the parts that aren’t mine to tell, Nina.”
My mind races as I try to digest all that hehastold me, but all I can think about is the conversation I had with Erin just a few days ago. She thought I knew. She told me to use the situation to my advantage.
If you are clever, you can benefit from this.
“Is she blackmailing him?” I ask, reading between the lines.
“Not anymore,” Charlie tells me.
“But she was?” Anger has my tone biting out the words.
He nods, and I stand.
“Where are you going? You can’t go to the police,” he warns.
“I’m not going to the police, Charlie. I would never.” I shake my head. I would be lying if his lack of trust in me didn’t sting. “I’m going to Mase.”
THIRTY-ONE
Mase
Locking the Bentley, I round the bonnet and make my way to the elevators, my mind a fucking jumble of thoughts.
I haven’t heard from Nina. Not that I expected to, but not knowing where she is and what she’s doing drives me wild. Vinny refused to tail her. He has been far less compliant since he came back. It leaves me unable to function. I can’t eat, sleep and think about anything other than her.
Pathetic.
Inserting my key into the dial, I press the button to the penthouse, resting my head back against the cool glass mirror.
I need her.
The doors slide open, and I stride out, only making it a foot into the foyer before I stop short. My feet unable to move.
Her chocolate hair is down and flows to her waist. She’s wearing a pair of cycling shorts and a pale pink tank, a pair of running shoes adorning her feet. She spins on the spot, facing me with an uncertain look.
“You ran here?” I ask, the last question I want an answer to. I can tell she did by the sheen of sweat that coats her heaving chest.
