Marshall fucking Preston.
My ex.
The one who’dtaught me exactly how charming a man could be before gutting you like a debutante’s reputation. Tall, golden, with a smile that could sign legislation and a soul like scorched earth.
I hadn’t expected him. I’d expected a Hartsfield—some buttoned-up heir with a double name and a house on Legare Street. But Preston? That wasn’t even the same bloodline.
Until I remembered—Marianne’s maiden name was Preston. Marshall must have been her nephew through her side of the family, not Phillip’s. A technicality that suddenly felt like thepunchline to a very bad joke. I had no idea that snake of a man was related to Phillip and Marianne.
He looked even more polished than I remembered—navy sport coat, tan slacks, hair like he’d just stepped off a yacht commercial. Every inch of him screamed Southern gentleman.
But I knew better.
He saw me.
And for half a second, the smile cracked.
Just a flash—like lightning far off on the horizon—but I saw it. A flicker of something behind his eyes.
Recognition. Panic. Calculation.
Then it was gone.
“Mr. Preston,” Daddy said, standing to shake his hand. “Glad you could join us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Marshall replied smoothly, shaking Daddy’s hand and then Momma’s, like he hadn’t once called me a fucking burden behind closed doors. Like he hadn’t ghosted me in D.C. after a year of empty promises and passive-aggressive silences.
And then—because the world was cruel, or ironic, or just had a fucked-up sense of humor—he turned to me.
“Sloane,” he said, like we were strangers at a gala, not two people who’d once shared a bed and a breakdown.
“Marshall.” I kept my voice as even as my heartbeat wasn’t. “It’s been … a while.”
He smiled. “Too long.”
Too long?
I wanted to throw my water in his face and ask if ghosting counted as time management, but instead I sat back down like the well-trained show pony I was.
Momma gestured to the chair beside me. “Why don’t you sit here, dear?”
Of course.Right beside me.
Marshall took the seat, his knee brushing mine, casual and calculated.
And I smiled.
Because I could already feel the mask cracking. The fury bubbling under the surface of my ribcage.
And because I knew—I knew—this lunch was about to become very interesting.
14
CHARLIE
The Isle of Palms Country Club was everything I despised wrapped in a bow of privilege and pretense. The place reeked of old money—polished wood, fresh-cut flowers, and the faint tang of gin.
I stood at the entrance, my boots scuffing the pristine marble, and nearly turned back. The valet had eyed my truck like it was a stray dog, and the hostess’s smile was so tight I thought her face might crack.
