19
SLOANE
The ride to Daddy’s house was quiet.
Not the awkward kind. Not tense. But charged—like the silence knew too much to bother with small talk. I sat in the passenger seat of Charlie’s truck, bare legs sticking to the worn leather, my white blazer dress still rumpled from the yacht.
Charlie gripped the wheel like it grounded him, his jaw tight, his eyes on the road. And every so often, he’d glance over like he was memorizing the way I looked just in case this was the last time.
I sure hoped it wasn’t the last time.
Daddy’s estate came into view slowly, rising like a curated mirage through the Spanish moss and century-old oaks. White columns, perfect hedges, a lawn that looked manicured down to the blade—everything in its place. Except me.
Charlie pulled through the gate and into the horseshoe drive, the tires crunching against the gravel like we were breaking a rule just by being here. Quentin stood near the front steps in a crisp black suit, arms folded, watching us with the kind of stillness that felt both loyal and lethal.
I turned to Charlie. “You don’t have to walk me in.”
He looked at me. Really looked. “I want to.”
So, he did.
I opened the door and stepped out, the sticky Charleston heat wrapping around me. Quentin moved forward, his face impassive—until his eyes landed on Charlie.
Recognition flared there. Not surprise. Not suspicion.
Respect.
“Mr. Dane,” Quentin said with a nod. “Didn’t realize you were the one bringing Miss Carrington home.”
There was a pause, something thoughtful in the way his eyes flicked between us.
“Didn’t realize it was you who picked her up from the airport either.”
Charlie nodded back. “I didn’t realize she needed protection.”
Quentin’s mouth curved the barest amount. “You’re not wrong.”
And just like that, they’d reached some unspoken agreement. Soldier to soldier. Protector to protector.
I blinked, a little stunned by the shift. I’d never seen Quentin defer to anyone like that—not even my father. Not really.
“Your mother’s inside,” Quentin added, turning to me. “She’s been … waiting.”
The word hung there, brittle and barbed.
Charlie followed me up the front steps, slow and deliberate. Every movement felt amplified—the creak of the wood, the distant chirp of cicadas, the way my hand trembled when I pushed open the door.
Inside, the house was cool and quiet. Too quiet.
We stepped into the foyer, the scent of hydrangeas and expensive candles wrapping around me. And then I saw her.
Momma.
Standing just beyond the staircase, still in her pearls and silk wrap from lunch, but her posture wasn’t composed. It was rigid. Her hands clutched the back of a Queen Anne chair like it might keep her upright. Her eyes landed on Charlie and didn’t blink.
It wasn’t disgust. Or panic.
It was something closer to recognition.
