We exchanged the usual pleasantries—how mild the weather had been lately, how divine the chef’s fig and chèvre crostini was at the last event, how the garden was holding on just a little longer this year, wasn’t that something? I nodded, smiled, contributed when required. Polished, poised. A porcelain doll with a heartbeat.
Once we were all seated and a round of sparkling waters had appeared as if conjured, Marianne folded her napkin into her lap and delivered the line I knew was coming.
“Well,” she said, “Marshall sends his apologies. He was pulled into a business call, poor thing, but he’ll be joining us shortly.”
Marshall.
Of course, his name was Marshall. It practically came with its own trust fund and a closet full of khaki.
“Business never stops,” Phillip added with a chuckle, like that made him more charming. “Especially not in real estate development.”
My smile stayed frozen in place. “Naturally.”
Momma patted my hand under the table like I was a filly about to be trotted out for inspection.
“We were just saying how excited Sloane is to reconnect with Charleston,” she said, eyes sparkling with layered meaning. “And how much she’s been enjoying her time here.”
I blinked at her. Was that what we’d been saying?
Phillip turned toward me, his expression benevolent in the way men get when they think they’re offering you a gift. “You know, Marshall just finalized the acquisition of a beautiful estate off Tradd. Historic, of course. He’s very preservation-minded. That’s something rare in young men these days.”
I gave a tight-lipped smile and fought the urge to ask if Marshall also recycled and called his grandmother on Sundays. Because if we were building a fantasy man out of bullet points, we might as well go for sainthood.
“You must be so proud,” I said instead, sipping my water like it might wash away the discomfort. “Charleston’s fortunate to have someone so … invested.”
Phillip beamed.
And I sat there, wrapped in white linen and polite applause, feeling like a prize mare being gently led into auction. All I was missing was a ribbon around my neck and a certificate of lineage.
The conversation rolled on—about the renovation permits, the rising interest in Southern coastal portfolios, the gala at the Battery Museum next month. Every now and then, a glance would flick toward the patio doors, anticipating Marshall’s arrival like a groom in a Jane Austen novel who was running just fashionably late enough to build suspense.
But I wasn’t fooled.
I knew what this was.
A setup. A transaction. A strategic alignment of legacies wrapped in designer charm. I could practically hear the mental ledgers being updated across the table. A Carrington-Hartsfield union.
Elegant. Traditional. Marketable.
And yet all I could think about was the man who hadn’t introduced himself. Who hadn’t made polite conversation orasked about my family tree. Who had taken what he wanted—my breath, my body, my thoughts—and vanished like smoke.
Marshall might show up in a freshly pressed blazer and say all the right things.
But he’d never make me feel like I was on fire.
Suddenly, the club’s veranda doors opened with a discreet whoosh, followed by a subtle rustle of movement behind me. I didn’t turn right away—partly because I was mid-nod at Marianne’s latest monologue about the Battery Museum’s restoration efforts, and partly because I was bracing.
But then I heard the voice.
“Sorry, I’m late,” it said, smooth and confident and just cocky enough to curdle my blood.
I froze.
Because I knew that voice. Had known it in bedrooms and in bars, in whispered lies and shouted fights. In tears I never admitted I shed.
I turned.
And there he was.
