I hope I’d know.
“Believe what you want,” he said. “It won’t change what happens next.”
I turned my face away. Not to hide. To remember. The heat of Charlie’s hands on my hips. The way he whispered my name like a promise. The kiss we shared before I walked into the storm.
If he was dead, he died loving me. And if he was alive? He’d burn the world to find me.
Either way, I wouldn’t break. Not here. Not now. Not for Marshall fucking Preston.
I was a Dane now. Not by name. But by heart. And they don’t bury their own without a fight.
I let the silence stretch, thick as molasses, letting Marshall believe he’d rattled me. Letting him think he’d won.
But in the quiet, something else bloomed. A flicker of clarity. A steadying pulse beneath the grief.
I used to think heat on a tarmac was the worst thing that could happen to me. I used to complain when the air conditioning didn’t work backstage or when a brand wanted me to endorse some product so out of touch, it felt like social media suicide. There was a week last year when I cried because a designer pulled my name from their invite list and sent it to someone younger, shinier.
That version of me didn’t know a damn thing.
This—what I’d just lived through—this was real. Cold, dark, terrifyingly real. And the only thought that had gotten me through it wasn’t my mother, or my influencer career, or even survival.
It was Charlie.
His voice. His laugh. The way he always seemed to know what I needed, even when I didn’t. That fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he looked at me like I was something worth keeping safe.
He’d said he loved me. Not in a fancy speech. Just raw. Simple.
I love you, Sloane.
And I hadn’t said it back.
I hadn’t even realized I needed to.
But now I did.
I loved him. I loved him so much it made my chest hurt worse than the crash, worse than the dark water that had swallowed us whole. I didn’t care where he lived, what he owned, or what my life used to look like. I didn’t need red carpets or private jetsor curated campaigns. Hell, I’d live in a shack in the woods. A trailer in the desert. A rusty boat floating on God-knows-what water.
I’d sleep on the floor if it meant waking up to him.
I turned to Marshall, my voice shaking but sure. “You think you’ve won?”
His jaw ticked. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“No. You’re wrong.” I straightened, even though every muscle in my body screamed. “You can drag me across state lines, throw me in some twisted Department 77 dungeon, but you can’t make me love you. You can’t erase what I feel.”
He said nothing. Just stared like I was an equation he couldn’t solve.
“I love him,” I said, louder now, letting the truth fill the room. “Charlie Dane. I love him. And not in some fantasy way I can switch off when things get hard. I love him enough to choose him over everything. Over luxury. Over comfort. Over safety. I’d live in a damn cardboard box if it meant being by his side.”
Marshall’s nostrils flared. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. “You can kill a career. You can ruin a reputation. But you can’t kill this. What I feel for him? It’s already carved into my bones. It’s not going anywhere. And you … you can go fuck yourself.”
He took a step back like my words had scorched him. Good.
His hands clenched into fists, but I didn’t stop.
“You want obedience? Buy a dog. You want a wife? Find someone who’s desperate. Because this girl—this woman—isn’t for sale. Not anymore.”
