Marshall’s threat about the Carrington fortune disappearing felt like a clue, a hint that Department 77 had leverage, maybe tied to whatever Dad and Sylvia had been tangled in.
I thought about the trust, the billions I’d signed for, and wondered if it was connected, if Dad’s empire was built on secrets that could bring us all down. Sloane was in the middle of it, whether she knew it or not, and Marshall’s “I get the girl” bullshit made it personal.
I needed answers, needed to talk my brothers, to dig into Dad’s past, but most of all, I needed Sloane—her fire, her truth, the way she made the world make sense.
I floored the gas, the truck roaring into the night, determined to find her, to face whatever this was, because no matter what Marshall or Department 77 had planned, I wasn’t letting her go.
23
SLOANE
The air was thick with heat and secrets.
I stayed under the willow, the leaves swaying above me, trying to steady the pulse that had no intention of calming down. My phone remained stubbornly silent, and I hated how many times I’d checked it. Nine missed calls to Charlie. And still, nothing back.
Until headlights broke through the trees.
I froze, breath hitching. A truck. Not a town car. Not a delivery van. Not Marshall Preston’s sleek sedan.
Charlie.
I didn’t need to see the license plate to know it was him. The rumble of the engine, the confident way it took the bend in the driveway, like it belonged here—even though he didn’t. Not really.
The truck slowed near the house, parking just shy of the front steps. My bare feet moved before my mind caught up. I stepped out from the shadows and onto the lawn, breath tangled somewhere between relief and terror.
He climbed out slowly, eyes finding me in the dark like a heat-seeking missile. His jaw was tight, his posture tenser, but his gaze landed on me like a lifeline. Like I was the thing keeping him tethered.
“You came,” I said, voice quieter than I intended.
His reply was just as low. “I had to.”
I took a step toward him, then another, until we were standing in the middle of the lawn, the porch light throwing long shadows behind us. He was close enough now that I could see the redness in his eyes, the flush high on his cheeks. He smelled like whiskey and salt air. Trouble and home.
“I thought you were done with me,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened. “Never.”
My breath hitched again, sharper this time.
He took a step closer. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. The space between us crackled, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. His gaze dipped to my mouth, lingered. My whole body tightened in response.
“You miss me?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
“Not even a little,” I lied, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.
“Liar,” he said, fingers brushing mine. Just a graze, but it lit me up from the inside out.
I tilted my head. “You think I’m that easy to read?”
He leaned in slightly, lips a breath from my ear. “I think you’re not nearly as composed as you want to be.”
I exhaled shakily, every nerve ending on alert. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you composed?”
His eyes met mine again, molten. “Not even close.”
