"Reassign him. He’s the new security guard for the underground parking lot."

Without a backward glance, Zachary took his phone and strode out of the room, his silhouette cold and regal.

"Yes, sir." Ben stepped forward and patted Wesley’s bruised face with mock sympathy. "You should be shivering with gratitude, Wesley. Mr. Nacht is a saintly, generous man. A million-dollar annual salary just to watch cars? You won't find a golden goose like that anywhere else in this city."

"Yes... yes... thank you, Mr. Nacht! Thank you, Ben! I—I’m so grateful!"

Wesley’s mouth was a bloody mess, but he forced a grotesque smile onto his face, nodding like a bobblehead.

Charlotte watched the scene with a wave of pure revulsion. Yet, she couldn't help but sigh inwardly. This punishment is ingenious. From this day forward, Wesley will never be able to hold his head up in this company again. He’ll be the laughingstock of the garage. This... this truly is the way of the Devil.

She made a mental vow: stay as far away from Zachary Nacht as humanly possible. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and far too efficient at ruining lives.

Thinking of "Devils" made her think of her "Gigolo In Debt." In comparison, her gigolo was a dream—obedient, good-natured, and he had managed to "earn" her over a million dollars in just two nights.

With that thought, Charlotte quickly dried her clothes and bolted for the bank. Time was of the essence. She ran until her lungs burned, sliding through the bank doors just minutes before they closed for the day, clutching the cheque like a holy relic.

To her utter dismay, the clerk took one look at the document and shook her head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. This cheque was issued a stop-payment order early this morning."

Charlotte was floored. Those three rich women... they bought him from me for a million, and the moment they got their hands on him, they revoked the payment? Are wealthy women today really this unprincipled?

She immediately dialed the Gigolo’s number. Ring... ring... No answer. She tried again. And again. Nothing.

Panic began to set in. She fired off a frantic text: Call me back ASAP. It’s urgent!

Still no reply.

Charlotte paced the bank lobby, her mind spinning. Did something happen last night? Could it be that he couldn't handle their... 'wild tastes' and tried to escape at the last minute? Maybe the women got insulted and canceled the cheque in a fit of rage? Yes, that must be it!

She sprinted out of the bank, hailed a cab, and headed straight for Sultry Night. On the way, she began sneezing violently, her nose running and her head throbbing. The freezing dip in the pool was finally taking its toll, but she didn't care. She had to find that man.

When she arrived at the club, it was still too early for business. The front doors were barred, so Charlotte slipped through the service entrance and hurried to their usual private suite.

She pushed the door open and froze. The room was a skeleton. The plush velvet sofa, the ornate coffee table, the wine cabinets, and even the thick Persian carpet—all gone. A team of waiters was meticulously scrubbing the floor, while a manager stood in the center, measuring the walls for new custom furniture.

Charlotte grabbed a passing waitress, her voice a hushed, panicked whisper. "What happened? Everything was fine yesterday!"

"I don't know," the waitress said, looking harried. "Manager told us to gut the place. I'm just following orders." She looked Charlotte up and down. "How did you even get in here? You need to leave..."

"I'm just... a curious regular. I won't get in your way, I promise." Charlotte fumbled in her bag, pulled out three hundred in cash, and pressed it into the woman’s hand.

The waitress’s eyes widened. She swept the money into her pocket, checked to make sure the manager wasn't looking, and leaned in close to Charlotte’s ear. "When I came in this morning, there was blood everywhere. So much blood on the carpet... I think someone died in here last night. You know how these things go in places like this..."

"What?"

Charlotte’s world went white. The words 'someone died here' echoed in her skull like a death knell.

She remembered what the Gigolo had told her: Fifty-eight years old and two hundred and eighty pounds. I’m too young to die in bed. He had been terrified of one woman—and last night, there had been three of them.

Oh God. He couldn't possibly have... overexerted himself and died, right? It made sickening sense. If a life had been lost, the women would have canceled the cheque immediately to distance themselves from a potential crime scene.

Charlotte’s heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. She was consumed by a sudden, crushing weight of guilt. Her greed had cost a man his life.

And not just any man—the father of her children.

A horrific vision of the future flashed before her eyes. Ten years from now, her triplets would corner her and ask about their father. With tears of bitter repentance streaming down her face, she would have to tell them:

"Your father was a gigolo. I sold him to three rich women who weighed a combined seven hundred pounds for a million dollars... After that, he vanished. I don't even know where he's buried!"