“I’m Charlie,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “What’s going on with him?”
She hesitated, then spilled it—fever for two days, no insurance, no money for the ER. The kid, maybe three, was burning up, his breathing shallow. I knelt beside him, my hands moving on instinct, checking his pulse, his glands, the way his chest rose and fell.
“What’s your name?” I asked, glancing at her.
“Tamika,” she said, still wary. “That’s Jayden.”
“All right, Tamika. Jayden’s gonna be okay, but we need to get this fever down.” I pulled a digital thermometer from the duffel, along with a bottle of pediatric liquid meds I’d stashed for moments like this. The kid’s temp was 103, high but not deadly. I dosed him, showed Tamika how to measure it for later, and scribbled a note for Maria to get him antibiotics if the fever didn’t break by tomorrow. “Keep him hydrated,” I said, handing her a stack of twenties—enough for groceries and a cab to the pharmacy. “Call this number if he gets worse.” I gave her thecontact info of a nurse practitioner I trusted, a gal who owed me enough to take my calls.
Tamika took the cash, her eyes searching mine like she was waiting for the catch. “Why you doing this? They don’t give out cash at clinics.”
I stood, slinging the duffel over my shoulder. “Somebody’s gotta.”
She didn’t push, just nodded, and I slipped out, the pull quieter now but not gone.
Helping Jayden felt good, solid, but it didn’t erase her. The woman in red was still there, her body flashing in my mind—soft curves, tight pussy, the way she’d moaned against me. I wanted to fuck her slow this time, to watch her unravel, to feel her shudder under me as I took my time. My cock smiled, and I gritted my teeth, forcing the image away.
I was losing it, letting a stranger take up this much space in my head. I needed another fight, another kid to save, something to keep me grounded.
I stepped back into the waiting room, scanning for the next need.
An old woman in the corner caught my eye, her hands bandaged with dirty gauze, her face etched with pain. I started toward her, ready to do it again—clean a wound, slip her some cash, move on.
But as I moved, Sloane’s face flickered in my mind, her eyes through that boutique window, sharp and searching. I didn’t want her in my head any more than I wanted the cops on my trail. She was a complication, a spoiled princess who’d never understand the world I walked in.
The woman in red, though—she was different. She was fire, not ice, and I’d find her again, no matter how long it took.
Until then, I’d keep moving, keep helping, keep chasing the pull. It was the only thing keeping me sane.
I crouched beside the old woman, my voice low. “Hey, ma’am. You okay if I take a look at your hands?”
She nodded, her eyes tired but grateful, and I got to work, the clinic’s hum fading as I focused.
The woman in red was still there, a ghost I couldn’t shake, but for now, I had this—bandages, cash, a moment of good in a world that didn’t deserve it. And that was enough.
11
SLOANE
The gate clicked shut behind me with a metallic finality that felt too loud, too sharp for a Sunday. The kind of sound that belonged in a prison, not at the entrance to a Lowcountry estate with ivy-draped columns and security cameras hidden in magnolia trees.
Quentin stood just inside the portico, hands clasped behind his back like he’d been waiting there all day for me to show. Which, knowing him, he probably had.
“Welcome home, Miss Carrington,” he said.
I offered him a brittle smile and slipped past without comment, heels tapping a staccato rhythm across the marble floor that matched the beat of my nerves. My phone buzzed in my bag, but I didn’t reach for it. I needed a minute. Hell, I needed a drink. A scalding shower. A five-star escape plan.
Because no matter how many deep breaths I took on the ride back, I couldn’t shake the image of him.
The man from the boutique.
The man from the ball.
The man who felt like a secret I’d already known.
There was still an ache in my chest I couldn’t name. Not fear. Not lust—not exactly. But something more invasive. Something that had rooted under my skin and was growing there now, tangled and defiant.
I’d planned to stay the week in Charleston—line up some brand meetings, post a few curated stories, pretend I was reconnecting with my Southern roots before slipping back to Palm Beach for oceanfront lunches and rooftop Pilates. That had been the idea, anyway.
