After hanging up, he stared at his phone for a long moment before opening his messages.
What could he possibly say?
Sorry for doubting you.
Sorry for investigating your entire life.
Sorry for being exactly the kind of paranoid man you accused me of being.
He started typing and deleting, typing and deleting, until finally he settled on: “I read the report. You were right about everything. I’m sorry.”
The message showed as delivered.
Then read.
No response came.
Natalie made it three blocks from Sullivan Tower before the tears came in earnest.
She ducked into a coffee shop, ordered tea she didn’t want, and tried to pull herself together.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Carter.
She read it, felt something twist in her chest, and shoved the phone back in her purse without responding.
What was she supposed to say?
Thanks for confirming I’m not a con artist.
Glad your investigation proved I’m just a broke translator with terrible timing.
The humiliation burned.
He’d investigated her. Actually hired someone to dig through her life, her finances, her history.
She understood why, logically. She did.
Understanding didn’t make it hurt less.
Her phone buzzed again.
Charlotte: “Where are you? Are you okay? Your grandma called, worried.”
Right.
She’d told Gran she was running errands and might be late.
That was yesterday morning.
Before she’d spent nine hours on a sidewalk.
Before she’d collapsed.
Before she’d woken up in a billionaire’s guest room.
“I’m fine,” she texted back. “Long story. Coming home soon.”
Charlotte responded immediately.
“I’m at your apartment with bagels. Get here soon or I’m eating yours.”
Despite everything, Natalie smiled.
Charlotte had been her best friend since seventh grade, when Natalie had been the scholarship girl with the dead mom and the recovering‑addict grandmother, and Charlotte had been the rich girl with the private driver and the designer shoes who’d decided they were going to be friends and hadn’t taken no for an answer.
The friendship had survived everything: different schools, different tax brackets, Charlotte’s parents’ initial disapproval.
Charlotte didn’t care about money or status.
She just cared about people.
Which made what Natalie had to tell her even harder.
Forty minutes later, Natalie walked into the tiny Brooklyn apartment she shared with Gran to find Charlotte sprawled on the couch, eating a bagel, while Gran puttered in the kitchen making tea.
“Finally,” Charlotte said, springing to her feet. “I’ve been waiting for—” She stopped, taking in Natalie’s pale face. “Oh, honey. What happened?”
That was all it took.
Natalie dissolved into tears for the second time that day, which was really starting to become a pattern.
Gran appeared with tissues. Charlotte wrapped her in a hug.
Slowly, haltingly, Natalie told them everything.
