Deep. Shaken. Unsettled.
“Momma,” I said, voice tight.
She didn’t look at me. “Mr. Dane,” she said, like the name tasted strange in her mouth. “You’re not what I expected.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. “No one ever thinks I am.”
I looked between them, something sharp tightening in my chest. “Do you two … know each other?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, not personally. Of course, not.”
But Charlie was still watching her, brow drawn just slightly, like he was seeing through time.
My mother’s voice turned to ice. “Sloane, you should get changed. Your father will want to speak with you before dinner.”
“Actually,” Charlie said gently, “I’ll wait outside, make sure she gets settled. Then I’ll head out.”
Her eyes snapped to him again, and for a moment, her composure cracked. Just a sliver. Enough for the old Sloane—the observant, well-trained, please-don’t-upset-anyone Sloane—to see something she wasn’t supposed to.
It was fear.
Not of Charlie.
Of the name.
OfDane.
Before she could smooth it over with another practiced smile, my father’s voice boomed from the study. “Sylvia? Who’s here?”
She didn’t respond.
Charlie leaned in, brushing his fingers against mine. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll wait.”
I nodded, reluctant, and stepped further into the house. But before I could make it up the stairs, I paused, glancing over my shoulder.
My mother was still staring at Charlie.
And then I saw it.
The way her hand lifted, the way her fingers grazed her pearl necklace, her lips parting just slightly.
Not fear.
Memory.
A memory she wasn’t ready to confront.
I turned fully. “Momma?”
She blinked. Slowly. Her eyes cut to mine. “Yes, darling?”
“How do you know the Danes?”
There was a beat. Just one.
Then she smiled. A fraction too wide. “It’s an old Charleston family, Sloane. You know that.”
But the way she said it didn’t match her eyes.
