“This is surreal,” I said, stepping into my heels like I hadn’t just been naked in someone else’s bed.
He glanced over, his mouth tilted in that same maddening smirk. “It’s Charleston.”
I reached for my mask, smoothing it over my face. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”
He paused, one cufflink half-fastened. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I should’ve pressed. I was curious—more than curious. He was rich enough to chopper in, well-connected enough to make Lydia Langford stammer, and good enough in bed to make me forget what planet I was on.
But I didn’t push.
Because he was right. It was more fun this way.
I stepped toward the door, smoothing my hair. “Well, mystery man. Thanks for the memories.”
He pulled something from his inner jacket pocket—cash. A thick, folded stack of hundreds that he left neatly on the vanity like it was part of the decor. “For the sheets,” he said. “And the chandelier’s emotional trauma.”
I choked back another laugh. “Subtle.”
“Always.”
We opened the door together and slipped into the hallway like spies escaping a very glamorous crime scene. There were voices in the distance, strings swelling from the ballroom, the hum of high society spinning beneath chandeliers and half-truths.
We didn’t walk together.
We didn’t say goodbye.
We just split off in opposite directions, two masks vanishing into the night.
I found a mirror in the powder room off the main hall and reapplied my lipstick with a steadier hand than I expected. My pulse was still fast, my hair still a little too wild, and my thighs still tingling in ways that made it hard to focus on things like small talk and networking.
I was supposed to be down there playing nice—chatting up hedge fund heirs and whispering compliments about art I didn’t like. I was supposed to be visible, graceful, strategic. I was supposed to make the right kind of impression.
But all I could think about was that man upstairs.
That mouth. That voice. That cocky little shrug like he’d known from the moment I walked in that he’d ruin me.
And the worst part?
I kind of hoped I’d see him again.
Even if I wouldn’t know it was him.
There was something about him—familiar, almost. Like I should’ve recognized the angle of his jaw or the way he walked like the world didn’t get to tell him no. But I couldn’t place him. Not exactly. And that bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Because if Charleston had a man that good-looking, that confident, and that rich—I should’ve been introduced. Hell, Momma should’ve been diagramming our wedding plans on a place card by now.
So who the hell was he?
Not knowing was half the thrill.
It hummed under my skin like a secret I didn’t want to give back. Like wearing silk under a stiff blazer—just for me, just enough to make the day bearable. Mystery wasn’t usually my thing. I preferred clean lines, curated captions, and enough control to make chaos look intentional. But this? This felt like stepping off a ledge on purpose.
I wasn’t ready to climb back up just yet.
I headed back out into the hallway, my heels tapping softly against the marble, each step more performative than the last. I knew how to walk into a room like I owned it—mask on, spine straight, lips painted like a weapon. But my body still buzzed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d touched me. The way he hadn’t asked, hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t needed to.
I needed to do something. Redirect the energy. Ground myself in a persona that made sense.
