I smirked, imagining them scheming about wedding dates or stock portfolios, but the unease wouldn’t let go. Something was off, and when Golden Boy stood a moment later, excusing himself with a charm that made my skin crawl, I knew I wasn’t imagining it. He headed for the same exit, his stride purposeful.
I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping softly, and glanced at Henry.
“Gotta hit the head,” I said, keeping my tone casual, but my pulse was already climbing.
He nodded, unfazed, and I moved fast, weaving through the tables. I told myself this was stupid—Sloane was probably just tipsy, and Golden Boy was playing the gentleman, making sure she didn’t face-plant in the ladies’ room.
But my gut wasn’t buying it, and when I caught sight of him slipping into the women’s bathroom instead of the men’s, my blood went cold.
What the fuck?
I quickened my pace, my jaw tight, my hands curling into fists. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but every instinct screamed trouble, and I wasn’t about to let Sloane—spoiled brat or not—deal with it alone.
What the hell had I gotten myself into this time?
I reached the bathroom door, the polished wood gleaming under the club’s soft lighting, and paused, listening for any sound—voices, footsteps, anything that would tell me what I was about to interrupt. The hallway was quiet, the murmur of the veranda fading behind me, but my heart was pounding, a mix of adrenaline and something I didn’t want to name.
Sloane wasn’t my problem, never had been, but the thought of her in there, cornered by that slick bastard, lit a fire in my gut I couldn’t ignore. I pushed the door open, slow and silent, ready for whatever was on the other side, my mind racing with possibilities—none of them good.
15
SLOANE
The women’s lounge at the Isle of Palms Country Club was the kind of place designed to soothe egos and blot lipstick. Quiet as a chapel, trimmed in blush velvet and brass, with a faint scent of Chanel and generational denial.
I locked eyes with myself in the gilded mirror above the marble counter and gripped the edge until my knuckles paled.
Breathe. Don’t break.
Outside, I’d played the part. Perfect posture. Polished replies. A smile so tight it could’ve sliced glass. But the second Marshall walked in like some golden god from my worst memories, the air had gone rancid in my lungs.
I didn’t come in here to cry—I didn’t cry—but I needed a beat. A moment without judgment, without Marianne's syrupy voice or my mother’s silent coaching across the table. A moment without his cologne creeping into my bloodstream.
Behind me, a stall door clicked open. A woman I didn’t recognize stepped out, paused at the sink, and caught my eye. Something about my posture must’ve given me away.
The quiet panic. The fight winding its way up my throat.
“You okay?” she asked, not unkind.
I forced a small nod. “Fine. Just needed a minute.”
She hesitated. Then her gaze flicked past me—and shifted.
Footsteps.
I turned just in time to see him walk in.
Marshall.
The woman blinked, surprised, but when he smiled and murmured something polite—too smooth, too confident—she lowered her gaze and slipped out without another word, the door swinging shut behind her like the end of a scene.
And then we were alone.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me like I was something he already owned.
“What are you doing?” I asked, voice low but sharp. “This is the women’s lounge.”
He had the audacity to chuckle, stepping closer, as if the air between us hadn’t been poisoned years ago. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you in worse places, Sloane.”
