No press, no photos, no names.
Of course.
Charleston’s social elite didn’t throw parties. They curated atmospheres. Tonight’s event came courtesy of the Langfords—moneyed, mysterious, and rumored to be on their fifth generation of political entanglements and discreet scandals. I hadn’t seen them in years, not since the eldest daughter’s wedding featured a harpist, a live dove release, and a silent divorce filing three weeks later.
I set the invite down and took a sip of juice.
A masquerade meant secrets. Anonymity. Masks, games, shadows.
It also meant rich men pretending to be dangerous and dangerous men pretending to be rich.
Which meant I needed to look the part.
I was halfway through my second espresso when Momma glided in wearing a floral silk robe and an expression that said she was already disappointed in me.
“Ah,” she said, her gaze flicking to the invitation. “So, you’re going.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
She ignored the sarcasm, lifting the card and turning it between her fingers like it might hold hidden codes. “I hear the Langfords invited some very interesting guests this year. A few D.C. types. New money from Atlanta. And at least one hedge fund heir with a private jet.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“You could do worse,” she said, taking a sip from the coffee Quentin had just placed beside her. “At least pretend to be interested. It’s a room full of opportunity, Sloane. Don’t waste it by sulking in the corner.”
“I don’t sulk,” I said. “I observe. It’s chic.”
She gave me that look again—somewhere between pity and critique—and reached for a slice of melon.
Daddy strolled in a moment later, golf shirt crisp, sunglasses already on. He took one glance at the invite and grinned.
“Knew they’d remember you. Carringtons don’t get left off lists like that.”
“Lucky me,” I muttered.
“Wear the red dress,” Momma said without looking up. “The one with the slit. And maybe something with sleeves this time.”
“Subtle contradiction, Momma.”
She waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”
Daddy leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Be nice to whoever’s under the mask. You never know where the next deal—or marriage—might come from.”
“You two make me sound like a desperate debutante at a cattle auction.”
He laughed. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t start any fights.”
I arched a brow. “What makes you think I’d start anything?”
He gave me a wink. “Try not to scare off anyone offering you a ride this time.”
I forced a polite smile, but my throat tightened.
He didn’t know. Not really. He was just teasing—assuming I’d been my usual difficult self with whoever happened to be behind the wheel. He had no idea that the man in question hadn’t flinched. That he’d smirked. That he’d looked at me like I wasn’t untouchable.
And just like that, I was back there again—in the heat, in the hum of his voice, in the scent of sweat and leather and whatever stubborn thing Charlie was made of.
I hadn’t stopped thinking about him.
