Today’s gathering was at Magnolia Plantation, a sprawling estate outside Charleston that oozed old money and new decadence. The main house was a white-columned beast, its verandas draped in wisteria, its lawns manicured to perfection. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering gold over oyster-shell walkways. A marquee tent glowed on the riverbank, its silk walls billowing, crystal chandeliers sparkling inside. Guests sipped Pappy Van Winkle from cut-glass tumblers, their laughter mingling with a live band’s soulful croon. Waiters in white gloves passed lobster tartlets and foie gras crostini, while a champagne tower bubbled under a canopy of live oaks strung with fairy lights.
It was billionaire excess, a world I’d never felt part of—until now.
I mingled, surprising myself. I joked with Noah about his tux, too tight from his renewed gym obsession, and laughed with Isabel when she spilled champagne on Ryker’s cufflinks. Hallie Mae caught me by the bar, her smile warm, her eyes seeing me—not The Ghost, but Silas—and I felt a pang of gratitude. I clapped Marcus on the back, his grin sharp as he recounted a poker game where he’d fleeced a hedge fund bro.
For once, I wasn’t on the edges, wasn’t scanning for threats. I was in it, part of the crowd, and it felt good, like I belonged.
Portia was the reason, her presence a tether, her glances across the tent a spark that kept me burning.
She moved like a queen, her dress a deep burgundy that clung to her curves, the neckline plunging just enough to makemy mouth water. Her curls were swept up, a few strands teasing her neck, and every time our eyes met, the world narrowed to her—her smile, her fire, her promise of later.
We’d agreed to keep it quiet, to protect her career, but it didn’t stop the heat.
During a toast, her hand brushed mine, her fingers lingering, and I felt it in my bones, a jolt that made me want to drag her into the shadows. Later, by the dessert table, she leaned close, whispering about a vendor mix-up, her breath hot on my ear, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from kissing her then and there.
As the evening wound down, the crowd thinned, guests drifting to their Bentleys and helicopters. I stood by a quiet corner of the garden, the river’s hum soft, the torches casting long shadows.
Portia found me, her dress shimmering in the firelight, her eyes bright with mischief.
“You clean up nice, Dane,” she said, her voice low, teasing.
I smirked, stepping closer, the air crackling between us.
“You’re not so bad yourself. That dress is a fucking crime.”
She laughed, soft and warm, her hand grazing my arm.
“Later,” she murmured, her eyes promising fire. “My suite. Midnight. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, my voice rough, already picturing her naked, her legs spread, her moans filling the dark. We stood there, the party’s hum distant, planning our escape, our secret. I was happy—fuck, I was happy—and I didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t want it to end.
Then her eyes flicked down, her brow furrowing. “What’s that hanging out of your pocket?”
I grinned, thinking she was messing with me, her hand reaching for my pants. My cock twitched, expecting her fingers to tease, to stroke, but she pulled out something else—a redribbon, thin and silky, with a metal tassel glinting in the torchlight.
She held it up, her smile fading to wonder. “What is this, Silas?”
I froze, my grin dying. I didn’t know. My hand went to my pocket, empty, and my gut twisted.
“Probably a prank,” I said, forcing a laugh, my mind racing. “My brothers pull this shit all the time. Ninja skills, they call it. Marcus or Charlie, betting on it.”
She didn’t laugh, her eyes on the tassel, her fingers turning it over.
“There’s something etched here,” she said, her voice quiet, like this was a game. She squinted, reading, and her face paled. “It says, ‘My Silas. Soon.’”
The world stopped. My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath gone.
My Silas.
My mother’s words, her ghost, burned into that phone, now here, in Portia’s hand.
I stared at the ribbon, red as blood, the metal cold and accusing.
Portia’s eyes met mine, wide with fear, and before my brain could unwind, she dropped it, the tassel hitting the grass with a soft thud. She turned, her dress swirling, and disappeared into the crowd, her steps fast, like she was running from me, from this.
I stood there, rooted, my chest hollow, my mind a mess. The ribbon lay at my feet, a snake in the grass, and I didn’t touch it, didn’t dare.
My Silas. Soon.
