A minute later, I was inside her again, wishing I could stay there forever.
13
PORTIA
The next day, Verandelle shimmered in the late morning light, all French country charm and Charleston indulgence.
Ivy spilled over sun-warmed brick walls, and lavender bloomed in terra cotta pots like something from a Provençal postcard. A pale stone fountain bubbled in the background, soft and steady, while the breeze teased the Spanish moss hanging from the arched trellises.
If yesterday had been lust and linen sheets, today was rosé and reputation.
I smoothed my dress as I stepped through the archway, heels clicking softly on the old brick floor.
Today’s dress was strategic—sweet enough to charm, modest enough to forget. Fitted at the waist, with flutter sleeves and a skirt that moved when I walked. The neckline dipped just enough to draw the eye, not enough to invite commentary. A subtle floral print in ivory and rose traced the hem, delicate and feminine. I’d even worn panties.
It was a line in the sand. A silent recalibration after yesterday’s chaos. No more invitations. This morning, I wasn’t dressing for Silas. I was dressing for control.
I wasn’t responsible for this engagement party—that honor went to a local socialite with a Rolodex older than most of the guests—but I was still on display. I always was. No matter the day, no matter the task, I carried the weight of perfection like a tailored coat.
Straight spine. Sharp eye. Cool voice.
Never mind that I’d spent yesterday in a guest suite at Dominion Hall, thoroughly wrecked by a man who still hadn’t texted me.
Silas.
Just thinking his name made something coil in my stomach.
We’d stayed in that room for hours. Long enough for the afternoon sun to shift across the balcony. Long enough for me to forget what time it was—what job I was supposed to be doing. I’d left Monte to manage the rest of the security planning on his own, a first in the history of my career. I hadn’t even made it back to the hotel until evening. I’d ordered a chopped salad from room service and eaten it in a bathrobe, too tired—and too raw—to do anything else.
Now it was a new day. A fresh outfit. A sharper face in the mirror.
And I was back on the clock.
The Verandelle courtyard unfolded in layers of pale color and controlled luxury. Blush florals twined around wrought-iron railings. Waiters in crisp white served blood orange mimosas and mini crab cakes. The playlist was a mix of soft jazz and understated strings—something curated to imply good taste without ever drawing attention.
Monte and Bea were already here, both dressed with quiet authority. Monte looked like security detail in a tailored sportcoat, dark sunglasses shielding eyes that missed nothing. Bea, in contrast, wore a flowing powder-blue wrap dress with pointed flats and a digital clipboard tucked under her arm like a sidearm. She’d flown in from Atlanta yesterday and texted me first thing this morning:I’m here. Where’s the fire?
“There you are,” she said now, stepping in beside me as I scanned the courtyard.
“I was starting to think you got kidnapped by a mimosa bar.”
“Tempting,” I murmured, adjusting the clasp on my clutch. “But no. Just ... needed a minute to reset.”
She looked at me. Really looked. “You good?”
I hesitated. Then nodded. “I will be. Today’s just about showing up.”
Bea didn’t push. She never did. She just handed me a tablet with the latest updates and a list of names. “Your new best friend is a blonde named Pia Paige. Isabel’s friend. She already asked me twice if we’re doing drone coverage for the wedding.”
“Great.”
“She also asked if the grooms would be wearing swords. Like, actual weapons.”
I blinked. “Please tell me you said no.”
“I told her only if she’s first in line to duel.”
I took the tablet, scrolling through names and notes as Bea wandered off to intercept a champagne spill. Just ahead, Isabel stood chatting with Sasha, who looked luminous in a pink dress with gold bangles at both wrists. They spotted me and waved.
