He held up his hands, mock surrender, but his eyes were still sharp.
“Easy, tiger. I haven’t even gotten to the punchline.” He paused, letting the moment stretch, and I knew whatever was coming was gonna piss me off more than the photo. “You need to meet with the family attorney tomorrow. At the club, one o’clock. Time to set up your trust.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face stone-cold, even as the words hit like a sucker punch. I was the only brother who’d put this off, dragging my feet for years, and I knew why, even if I didn’t say it out loud. Setting up the trust meant signing papers that tied me to the Dane fortune, to the empire Dad had built, and that felt like burying his memory for good. I wasn’t ready to let him go, not like that.
“Fuck the trust,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant, the edge blunted by something heavier. “I don’t need a lawyer to tell me how to handle my money.”
Elias didn’t blink, just leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed again, like he’d expected this.
“Billions just sitting out there makes the paper pushers nervous,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “More than that, it’s a weakness for the family. Loose ends, Charlie. You know how this works.”
He was right, and I hated it. The Danes were a fortress, but every unclosed gap was a crack an enemy like Department 77 could exploit. I’d seen what happened when we weren’t airtight—blood, betrayal, and graves nobody visited.
I ran a hand through my hair, my jaw tight, and glanced at Paul, who was plating my steak like he hadn’t heard a word.
“Fine,” I muttered, the word tasting like ash. “I’ll meet the damn lawyer. But you know I hate the club, hate lawyers, and fucking detest talking about money.”
Elias grinned, the bastard, like he’d won a round I didn’t know we were fighting.
“Noted,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Just don’t punch the guy, all right? He’s old, and we need him.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, a brotherly gesture that felt more like a leash, and strolled out, leaving me with the smell of steak and a knot in my chest.
I sat at the kitchen island, the filet and potatoes steaming in front of me, but my appetite was gone. Paul slid a beer my way, unasked, and I nodded my thanks, cracking it open and taking a long pull.
The trust thing wasn’t just paperwork—it was a door I’d been keeping closed, a way to hold onto Dad’s ghost a little longer. He’d been the one who taught me to fight, to fix people, to never let the world tell you who you are. Losing him had gutted me, and every step toward claiming the fortune he’d left felt like letting him slip further away.
I cut into the steak, the knife gliding through like butter, but my mind was elsewhere—on the woman in red, her fire, her moans, the way she’d made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t since those days on Sullivan’s Island, running wild with Marcus and Dad’s laughter in the background.
I took a bite, the meat rich and perfect, but it didn’t fill the hollow.
Elias’s words kept circling—weakness, loose ends, the family.
He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it easier.
I’d go to the club, sit through the lawyer’s spiel, sign whatever needed signing, but it wouldn’t be for me. It’d be for the Danes,for the brothers who’d bleed for me and I’d bleed for in return. That’s what family meant, even if it came with lectures and trust funds I didn’t want.
I washed down the steak with another gulp of beer, my eyes drifting to the window, where Charleston’s skyline glittered in the distance. Somewhere out there was the woman in red, and for a second, I let myself imagine finding her again, losing myself in her heat, forgetting the weight of trusts and legacies. But that was a fantasy, and I was a Dane. Fantasies were for suckers, and I had work to do.
13
SLOANE
The parking lot of the Isle of Palms Country Club smelled like money and fresh-cut grass.
The kind of place where Teslas parked themselves and linen jackets stayed miraculously unwrinkled, even in ninety-degree heat. I sat in the back of Daddy’s town car, fingers curled around the handle of my Dior bag like it might keep me tethered to earth.
The driver—some man I didn’t recognize, which meant he was new—pulled to a slow stop beneath the portico and opened the door with a rehearsed smile.
“Miss Carrington,” he said.
I slid out, heels hitting the pavement like punctuation, and immediately regretted the sharpness of my outfit. White blazer dress, gold buttons, sunglasses that screamed limited release—perfect for a country club meet-cute. Or a photoshoot. Or a funeral, if you asked my soul.
My mother descended behind me in a floral silk wrap that floated like she was above gravity. Daddy adjusted the cuff of his monogrammed shirt and gave me an encouraging glance.
“You look lovely,” he said, tucking his phone into his inside pocket. “Elegant. Approachable.”
“Like a political wife or a showroom mannequin?” I asked, too brightly.
