So I pulled out my phone.
Scrolled.
Scrolled more.
Then I paused.
There it was—the photo I’d taken earlier. The Langford lawn, bathed in low evening light, and dead center: his helicopter, sleek and smug like it had dropped in from a Bond film. I hadn’t thought much of it when I snapped it—just something absurd and theatrical, like everything in this world—but now, it felt personal. Intimate. Proof.
I cropped it tight, just enough to obscure the tail number, then opened Instagram.
Caption:
“Nothing says ‘masquerade’ like a mystery man and his getaway ride. #HeliYeah #MaskedEncounters #OnlyInCharleston”
I hit post and smiled.
Let them speculate. Let them wonder.
Because I was wondering, too.
About the man whose voice still echoed in my head.
About the hands that still haunted my skin.
About the fact that, in a room full of men trying to impress me, the only one I wanted didn’t even give me a name.
And somehow, that made him unforgettable.
8
CHARLIE
Lydia Langford’s outburst didn’t faze me one bit. She could scream to the press, rally her lawyers, or hurl every gaudy chandelier in her overpriced mansion, and I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a flinch. The Danes had more money than any ten Charleston dynasties combined, and our power ran deeper—forged in blood, backroom deals, and secrets buried where no one would dig. Even if we were flat broke, my brothers and I would still crush anyone who dared step to us, anytime, anywhere.
That was the Dane way, etched into our bones. Ryker would’ve laughed Lydia into silence, Marcus would’ve charmed her until she forgot her own name, and Elias—hell, Elias would’ve had her accounts locked before she could finish her tirade.
Me?
I just didn’t care.
She knew the cost of crossing us, and her little tantrum was nothing but noise.
I strode back to the ballroom with a grin, the woman in red’s scent still clinging to my skin. Her moans echoed in my head, each one a spark that made the whole miserable night worth it. That encounter was a fire I’d carry for years—her curves, her ferocity, the way she’d clawed my back like she wanted to brand me. I didn’t know her name, didn’t need to; she was a thrill that turned this charade into something alive, an adventure worth chasing.
The olive drab green mask hugged my face, a reminder of the military days that had shaped me, and I scanned the crowd as I moved, hoping for one last glimpse of her red dress. The ballroom was a swirl of excess—glittering gowns, men with too much cologne, chandeliers casting light like they were trying to outshine the stars.
I wanted her again, that spark in the dark, and the thought alone kept my blood humming louder than the bourbon in my veins.
I hit the bar, weaving through the masked elite. The bartender, that wiry guy with the goatee, had my double bourbon ready before I even reached the counter, his eyes glinting with the kind of respect you earn with a good tip. I palmed him five hundred bucks, the bills vanishing into his pocket like a magic trick.
“You’re a goddamn saint,” I said, raising the glass, and he smirked, muttering something about just doing his job.
I took a slow sip, the burn grounding me, and gave the room one final sweep, searching for her—that liquid walk, that black lace mask, that fire that had set me alight.
Nothing.
She was gone, a ghost who’d slipped through my fingers, leaving only the memory of her body pressed against mine.
