I stood, pulling Sloane to her feet, and grabbed my shirt, the need to act burning through the haze of our escape.
“We’ll go together,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside. “But we’re doing this my way—nobody touches you, not Marshall, not anyone.”
We dressed quickly, Sloane in my T-shirt and her jeans, me in jeans and a fresh hoodie.
The Hall was still quiet, my brothers’ presence a distant hum, and I led Sloane down the back stairs, my hand on her back, grounding us both.
The drive to the pier was tense, the city’s lights flickering like warnings, and I kept one eye on the rearview, half-expecting Marshall to reappear.
Sloane’s question broke the silence, her voice soft but resolute. “What do we do if he’s not alone?”
I tightened my grip on the wheel, the weight of her trust pressing on me.
“We play it smart,” I said. “He wants something—answers, leverage, you. We find out what, then we shut him down.”
The pier loomed ahead, its shadows thick with possibility, and I parked, knowing this was more than a meeting—it was a reckoning, and I’d fight like hell to keep Sloane safe, no matter what truths we uncovered.
25
SLOANE
The Mount Pleasant Pier stretched into black water. Moonlight clung to the waves below, dancing in fractured silver, but the air stayed still—waiting, just like us.
Charlie parked the truck in a shadowed corner near the end of the lot, engine idling as his fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel. I didn’t ask if he was nervous. I could feel it. In the tension knotting his shoulders. In the way his gaze scanned the pier like he was mapping out exits, memorizing shadows.
I rested my hand on his thigh. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, we do,” he said. Voice low. Certain.
A gull shrieked in the distance. Somewhere below us, water slapped wood. The lights lining the pier cast long, eerie paths across the boards.
We got out together, the scent of salt and something rotten riding the breeze. Marshall stood at the end, his silhouette sharp against the harbor’s glow. Alone, but never really. Men like him didn’t breathe without backup.
“Stay behind me,” Charlie muttered.
I didn’t argue.
I used to hate that feeling—being told what to do, being protected. It had always struck a nerve in me, the spoiled, stubborn girl who wanted to prove she could handle anything.
But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way Charlie looked at me—not as something fragile, but as something worth defending. Or maybe it was the way the ground kept moving under my feet and he was the only thing that felt steady.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t the girl I used to be. The one who relied on money, status, and charm to skate through the world. That version of me wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in this storm. But this version—the one at Charlie’s side, heart racing, back straight—she was learning to trust. To fight. To stand still when it counted. And to reach for someone who wasn’t afraid to reach back.
It felt good. Scary, but good.
As we approached, Marshall turned slowly, that smug smile already in place. He was dressed like he always was—too polished, too perfect. Like a banker dressing up as a villain for Halloween. Hard to believe I ever dated him.
“Charming view, isn’t it?” he said.
Charlie didn’t flinch. “Cut the bullshit.”
Marshall lifted a brow, then nodded toward me. “You brought her. Good. She deserves to hear it, too.”
“Hear what?” I asked, voice flat.
Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the water for a long beat, like he was composing poetry instead of planning our destruction.
“Department 77 wants their money back.”
