Page 9 of Freedom’s Inferno

He opened his visor with a flick of his fingers, and his brown eyes sparkled as they met my baby blues. “Chuck.” His voice was laced with mischievous glee. “We need to have a chat.”

“You broke into my fucking house!”

“Actually, Richard gave me a key. Are you seriously taking a bath in the same tub you drowned him in? On the night of his funeral?”

I balked, dragging my knees to my chest, concealing as much of my body as I could from his prying gaze.

He knew. How the hell did he know?

I didn’t answer him at first, too busy calculating my next move. Charles might suspect I had a hand in Richard’s death, but he couldn’t possibly have any evidence to back it up.

“Would you take that fucking helmet off? What are you, some sort of masked vigilante? You look ridiculous.”

He laughed. He actually laughed, like this whole thing was a twisted game and I was his unwilling opponent. Mercifully, he lifted the helmet from his head and tucked it beneath his arm, his stare never leaving mine.

“You don’t have to try so hard to cover up, ya know, it’s not like I haven’t seen a pair of tits before. I’m sure yours are nothing special, Lana.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He shrugged, slow and lazy. I wanted to claw the smirk from his lips.

“Like I said, you and I need to have a talk,” he said, grabbing the towel from the hook and tossing it to the side of the tub. “Dry yourself off and put some clothes on. Or don’t. I’ll be in Dick’s office.”

I opened my mouth, but the argument died on my lips. He was already striding away, an over-stuffed backpack bouncing behind him.

The water pressed against my skin, lukewarm now, but I was rooted there, half-hidden beneath the suds like a cornered animal. My breath came shallow, each exhale rippling the surface.

Fear wasn’t what held me there. Fury burned brighter. Fury at the intrusion, the humiliation, the reminder that even with Richard gone, men still thought they could walk into a room and own it. Own me.

The fucking audacity.

Under that rage, a quiet current stirred, one I hated myself for recognizing. He had me rattled. His gaze penetrated deeper than I wanted to admit, as if he could glimpse more than I’d allowed anyone to see.

When I finally rose, it wasn’t because he’d told me to. It was because I refused to let Charles Sterling—Charlie—see me hesitate.

I padded barefoot into my late husband’s office, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, my wet hair combed and clipped in a spiral on top of my head.

Charlie, that smug asshole, sat behind Richard’s desk with his boots kicked up, dirtying the mahogany. His hands were locked behind his head, lazy and carefree as he stretched to fill the space.

“Aww, aren’t you adorable,” he purred, lip twitching at the corner as he clocked my scowl. “Where are the matching bunny slippers?”

“Get to the point,” I bit out, crossing my arms as I stood before the desk like a school girl dragged into the principal’s office.

He reached into his backpack, pulling out a thick manilla file and tossed it onto the desk. “Help me understand why Blackwell Sterling is missing twenty million dollars, Richard is dead, and your signature is all over the accounts.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said, bending and taking the folder.

A muscle ticked in Charlie’s temple. He stared at me like I was a viper ready to strike, as if he wasn’t a badger.

I opened the file, rifling through the pages. I was a Certified Public Accountant, having graduated from Yale right next to those boys. I knew what I was looking at and yet I still couldn’t make sense of it.

“These are just transfers and charitable donations I authorized. I don’t understand what you’re insinuating.”

“Don’t play dumb, Lana. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m certain that I don’t know what you mean.”

Charlie drummed his fingers against the armrest, shoulders squared. His eyes locked on me, and the air thickened. “You must think I’m fucking stupid.” His hand lashed out, sweeping a stack of papers across the desk.