Something was cracking beneath the surface of her perfect, powdered calm. And I had a feeling I’d just stepped on a mine buried deep in the past.
Charlie’s voice was low behind me. “I should go.”
But I grabbed his hand before he could move. “No. Stay.”
My mother’s expression flickered again—this time with something dangerously close to panic.
“I’ll get your father,” she said, already moving toward the study like she was running for cover. But I knew. Iknew.
Something had just broken.
Whatever it was—it started with the name Dane and ended with my mother.
I turned to Charlie, my pulse thudding in my throat. “What’s happening?” I whispered.
Charlie’s jaw clenched.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said quietly, eyes locked on the spot where my mother had stood. “But she does.”
He was still holding my hand, and I realized my grip had tightened, like I needed an anchor to keep from sliding beneath whatever truth was about to surface.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Daddy emerged from the study, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, the buttons of his shirt collar undone, his expression confused but composed.
“Sloane,” he said, brow furrowing. “We’ve been calling you all afternoon. Your mother was worried sick.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Momma reappeared just behind him. Her face had been reassembled—smile intact, pearls straight, voice soft.
“I wasn’t worried,” she said too smoothly. “I just wanted to be sure she was safe.”
I lifted my chin. “I’m a grown woman, Momma. I live in Palm Beach. You don’t usually keep tabs on me like I’m sixteen sneaking off after curfew.”
Charlie’s gaze cut to me at that. “Palm Beach?”
I glanced at him, caught off guard. “Yeah. Thought you knew.”
He gave a small shake of his head, like he was filing that away for later. “Guess I didn’t.”
“But I get it,” I added, glancing back at my mother. “Maybe it’s just the way I left the club. It was … abrupt.”
Daddy turned toward Charlie, eyebrows lifting slightly. “And you are?”
“Charlie Dane,” he said evenly, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Sir.”
Something flickered behind my father’s eyes. Surprise. Caution. Then something colder—calculation.
“Dane?” Daddy repeated, shaking his hand. “As in …”
Charlie nodded once. “Byron was my father.”
There it was.
The name fell into the room like a thunderclap, sucking the air from the walls.
My mother went still. Not a blink. Not a breath.
Daddy turned to look at her, slowly, like a man retracing steps through a maze he hadn’t realized he was in.
“Is that a name we know, Sylvia?” he asked lightly, but there was tension coiled beneath the words. Something brittle. Something sharp.
