Marcus laughed. “Not this time. It’s social. Boring. One of the Charlestons is throwing a masquerade tomorrow night. A little bird told me Department 77 might send someone to scope it out.”
I groaned. “No.”
“I can’t go. You’re the only one in town who can pass as disinterested and lethal in a tux.”
“Hard pass.”
“It’s a black-tie ball, Charlie. With masks. Booze. Belles. Maybe even some intel.”
“Still no.”
“You’ll have fun. I already forwarded your name. You’re expected.”
I closed my eyes. “I hate you.”
“You love me. Tux is in your room. Mask, too.”
He hung up.
I stared at the screen for a long second, then dropped the phone on the seat.
This was the last thing I wanted. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Swimming in a pool of people I couldn’t stand. Charleston elite. Backroom handshakes. Painted-on smiles.
But then …
I thought about Sloane.
Her walk. Her voice. That glare sharp enough to draw blood.
I’d never see her again. That was fine. Good, even.
But maybe …
Maybe there’d be another belle tomorrow. One I didn’t have to argue with.
One I could fuck and forget.
Yeah.
That sounded about right.
5
SLOANE
The thing about being a Carrington was that you didn’t get invitations. You got expectations dressed up in cardstock.
So when a thick white envelope with my name embossed in gold script appeared—alongside fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and a croissant I hadn’t asked for—I knew better than to act surprised.
Quentin didn’t say a word as he set the tray down on the terrace table. He just nodded once, disappeared back inside, and left me blinking against the morning sun.
I peeled the envelope open with one manicured finger and pulled out the contents.
Masquerade.
Black tie.
Seven o’clock.
