Just as the thought of his gentleness began to soften her heart, Charlotte shook it off with a jolt of cold reality.

No, Charlotte Windt! Don’t you dare go soft now! she lectured herself. Once a gigolo, always a gigolo!

To her, the stain on his name was permanent. He had spent years in a "dirty" profession; how could he ever truly wash that away? Even if she could somehow overlook his past, what about the triplets? If they were to become a real family, what would happen if they ran into one of his former "clients" on the street? How would the children feel?

Her babies would be turned into a laughingstock because of their biological father’s identity. They would never be able to hold their heads high in society. The more she played out these scenarios, the more the fear tightened its grip on her heart. She reminded herself, again and again, to never let her guard down, no matter how much like a gentleman he acted.

Never!

"All done."

With a smooth click, Zachary switched off the hairdryer. He reached out and ruffled her soft, dry hair as if he were petting a small, stray puppy.

"That's enough." She nudged his hand away, immediately creating a physical distance between them. "You don't need to drive me home. I'll take a taxi."

"Are you sure about that?" This time, there was no fire in his voice—only a chilling, detached calm. He added coldly, "Once you walk out that door on your own, don't expect me to ever come to your aid again."

"That would be for the best!" she snapped back instantly. "Once I transfer the money back to you, we are finished. Let's make sure we never meet again."

Zachary’s brow furrowed as he stared at her in a heavy, contemplative silence. After a long moment, he gave a slow, curt nod. "Fine."

"Also... you have to delete that recording."

"I deleted it this morning. Weren't you watching?" His frown deepened, his patience clearly wearing thin.

"Good. Then... goodbye."

Without another word, she turned and scurried out of the room.

He stood perfectly still, watching her figure disappear into the distance. His face paled with a suppressed, simmering rage, and his fists clenched at his sides. This time, I’ll teach her a lesson she won't forget, he thought darkly. I'll make sure she comes back to me, begging, of her own accord.

The moment Charlotte exited the lobby, she hailed a taxi. Through the rear window, she caught a final glimpse of the sleek Aston Martin parked nearby. A sudden, sharp twinge of sorrow pierced her chest.

She found herself reminiscing—about the sheer madness of the previous night, and the oddly tender, caring man he had been today. And just like that, they had cut ties. It felt as though everything had been swept away by the wind in the blink of an eye.

It was like a dream—disorienting and surreal—as if the last twenty-four hours hadn't happened at all.

By the time she snapped out of her thoughts, the taxi had pulled up in front of her house. It was afternoon, and the kids were already away at kindergarten. Mrs. Berry appeared at the door, hurrying toward her with an anxious expression.

"Goodness me! Where were you last night, Miss? I tried calling a dozen times! I was worried sick!"

"I... I went out with a colleague and had a bit too much to drink, so I crashed at her place," Charlotte lied, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "I’m tired, Mrs. Berry. I need to lie down."

"Of course, dear. Rest up. I’ll make you something to eat when you wake."

"Thanks."

She dragged her feet to her room and collapsed onto the bed. She pulled out her phone to make the online transfer to the gigolo, but her fingers froze. A realization hit her like a bucket of cold water: she didn't even have his bank account number.

Furthermore, a quick check of her balance revealed a grim reality. If she sent him the full amount, she would have exactly seven hundred dollars left in her account.

Seven hundred? How am I supposed to survive until payday on seven hundred?

Panic started to set in. As she was racking her brain for a solution, her phone vibrated. It was Hector calling. She stared at the name for a second before hanging up immediately. She couldn't be bothered with him—not when her world was crumbling.

Without further hesitation, she sent a text to the "Gigolo": Send me your account number. I'm transferring the money now!

She waited, staring at the screen. Minutes ticked by. No reply.

Doesn't he want his money?

She knew she had to return it, if only to ensure he had no reason to ever bother her again. But a small, desperate part of her hoped that if he didn't reply right away, she could at least hold onto the cash until her next paycheck...

Then, her phone buzzed.

Gigolo In Debt: C National Union Bank, XXXXXXXX, Danny Grant.

"Heh... men will be men, I suppose," she muttered with a mocking, bitter laugh as she read the name.

Danny Grant. It sounded so plain, so old-fashioned for a man who looked like him. No wonder he never mentioned his real name.

She let out a long, heavy sigh as she prepared to hit 'send' on the transfer. It’s fine... it’s better this way. A clean break is worth every penny.