Boutique Girl was still staring at the street like she half-expected the sidewalk to explode.
I stood tall, and pasted on the kind of smile that had gotten me out of speeding tickets, awkward dates, and one ill-advised brunch with a rival influencer. “Let’s keep going.”
Linen Jumpsuit looked relieved, like I’d just given her permission to return to her regularly scheduled fantasy. “Of course! I’ve got the rack pulled and ready for try-ons.”
I followed her to the back, the boutique suddenly too bright, too staged, too still. I slipped behind the curtain of the changing room and let the linen robe fall off my shoulders, slipping into the first look like muscle memory. Crisp white midi dress, gold detailing, open back. Pretty enough for the feed. Pretty enough to pretend I was focused on the job.
But my mind was still outside.
Still locked on him.
I turned toward the mirror, tilted my chin, adjusted the straps, then stared hard at my own reflection.
What are you doing, Sloane?
Pretending.
Pretending I wasn’t still flushed. Pretending I hadn’t just watched a man dismantle a threat like it was breathing. Pretending this was just another boutique, just another day, just another campaign.
But it wasn’t.
Because fate had a flair for drama. And apparently, so did I.
I tried on three more outfits, filming quick clips of each in vertical format. I recorded a voiceover in my notes app that I’d layer later: “When the fit hits just right, and you know you’re about to own the whole damn room.” I even staged a flat lay with some of their jewelry on a woven tray.
Professional. Composed. Marketable.
But I was lying to myself.
Because all I could think about was him.
Not just the night before—though that alone could’ve earned him a recurring guest role in my dreams—but what he’d done today. The way he’d handled it. The way he’d disappeared again, like he’d never even been there.
He was danger dressed in quiet confidence. He didn’t announce himself, didn’t demand attention.
He just took it.
And something in me—some spoiled, tightly coiled, silk-and-steel part—wanted more of that.
I didn’t know what fate had in store. But I knew one thing: it wasn’t finished with me yet.
Not if he was still out there.
Not if that look—through the glass, through the noise—meant what I thought it did.
Because even if I didn’t know his name, my body remembered everything else.
It was only a matter of time before I found him again. Or he found me.
10
CHARLIE
The sun hit Charleston like a spotlight, and for once, I didn’t mind the glare. I was riding high, my blood still buzzing from the fight in the North End, from the way I’d left those thugs bleeding on the pavement.
Life felt sharp, vivid, like I’d finally shaken off the rust that had been clinging to me for years. I’d done some good, cracked some skulls, and walked away clean—nobody knew my name, and that was how I liked it.
The only thing souring my mood was her, the woman in red, her scent and moans burned into my brain like a brand. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—black lace mask, curves that begged to be touched, the way she’d arched under me like she was made for it.
