Chapter 11: Caught in the Tension

Charlotte barely made it through the door before collapsing on her bed. The weight of the day hit her like a truck, and within seconds, she was out cold. She woke up only a few hours later, blinking slowly, still half asleep at the sunlight filtering through her window.

She rubbed her eyes as she stumbled into the kitchen, where Emma was already making coffee. "Why did you come home so late yesterday?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow as she poured a cup.

Charlotte sighed deeply. "I’m in trouble, Emma. I’m so tired of this job, I don’t know how much longer I can deal with it."

Emma slid the coffee across the counter. "What happened?"

And Charlotte spilled. She told Emma everything—from Lucas to the chaos at the club, to the exhausting demands of Charles. "I swear, I’ve never met anyone as difficult as him," she finished, slumping into a chair.

Emma snorted. "You’re getting paid, and you’re getting bonuses. I don’t see what the problem is. You’ve dealt with worse."

Charlotte’s eyes widened. "Worse than Charles? Men, that man is impossible. I’m pretty sure he’s worse than James."

"Now that’s an exaggeration."

"It’s not!" Charlotte protested, draining her cup. "You don’t understand. He’s… ugh, just pray for me."

---

By the time Charlotte got to the office, her nerves completely burned out. She barely had time to settle in before her phone rang.

"Hello," Charles’ voice came through the line, as smooth as ever. "I won’t be coming into the office today. You’ll need to come to my house. There’s business to take care of."

Without waiting for her response, he hung up.

Charlotte stared at her phone in disbelief. "What is wrong with this man?" she muttered under her breath. She grabbed her things and took a cab to his house, fuming the entire way.

When she arrived, she rang the doorbell. No answer.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.

Just as she was about to leave, the intercom crackled. "Come in," Charles’ voice instructed, almost as an afterthought.

Charlotte pushed open the door, her shoes clicking on the marble floors as she made her way inside. The house was massive—cold, too—exactly what she expected from a billionaire’s mansion. She walked through the grand hallway and into the living room, calling out, "Charles?"

Still no answer.

She was about to turn back when she caught sight of him walking toward her. Her breath caught in her throat. There he was, standing in the doorway, clad in nothing but a towel slung low around his waist. Water dripped from his hair, running down his chiseled chest and over his six-pack like some kind of absurd cologne commercial.

Her eyes widened. Oh, hell!.

"Ashhh!" . "She screamed and spun around so fast she nearly tripped over her feet" ."Put some clothes on, for God’s sake!"

Charles chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction. "You can sit down," he said casually, as if standing half-naked in front of his PA was a completely normal situation.

Charlotte swallowed hard, trying to keep her eyes anywhere but on him. I’m a man. I can handle this. I’m a man, she repeated in her head, willing herself to sit on the couch without losing her mind.

But it was impossible. Charles’ body was just… distracting. His muscles gleamed in the light, every curve and line of his abs taunting her. Now I get it, she thought. This is why women are obsessed with him.

Trying to break the tension, she stood up and started wandering around the room, pretending to admire the decor. But Charles was moving again, coming toward her, still in that towel. And this time, there was nowhere for her to run.

She took a step back, panic rising in her chest. "Um… Charles, maybe we should—"

But before she could finish, her foot slipped, and in an embarrassing display of clumsiness, she tripped. She felt herself falling, but before she could hit the ground, Charles was there. His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him. Her hands instinctively landed on his neck, and suddenly, they were face to face. Their bodies were pressed together, his warmth seeping into her skin.

Oh no. Her heart raced as his dark eyes bore into hers, and she felt her breath hitch. His grip tightened on her waist, and for a second, everything seemed to stop.

And then it happened.

Charles let go.

And his towel dropped.

"OH. HOLY. FU—" Charlotte screamed, covering her eyes instantly as she spun around, tripping over herself in an effort to back away. But it was too late. The image was burned into her brain. Of all the things I didn’t need to see in this lifetime..

Charles, for his part, seemed oddly calm about the whole situation. He chuckled softly, bending down to retrieve the towel with the nonchalance of someone picking up a dropped sock.

"Seriously?" Charlotte screeched, still hiding her face behind her hands. "Could you, I don’t know, cover yourself before I sue you for emotional damage?"

Charles smirked, tying the towel back around his waist as if nothing had happened. "You’re the one who tripped. I was just trying to help."

"Help?" Charlotte lowered her hands just enough to glare at him. "By giving me an unsolicited strip show? What’s next, a full dance routine?"

Charles leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying the chaos he’d caused. "You’re welcome to stay for the encore."

"I’m leaving!" Charlotte declared, throwing her hands up in defeat as she marched toward the door. But before she could take another step, she heard a sound—footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming from upstairs.

Charlotte froze. "Who else is here?" she whispered, her heart pounding.

Charles’ expression changed, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. He glanced toward the staircase, his eyes narrowing. "No one."

"Then… who’s coming down the stairs?"

The air in the room shifted. The footsteps grew louder, closer. Charlotte’s blood ran cold as she stared at the stairs, waiting for whoever—or whatever—was about to appear.

Charles straightened, his jaw tightening. "Stay here."

Before she could protest, he walked toward the staircase, leaving her standing alone in

the middle of the living room. Her heart raced, a sense of dread curling in her stomach.