Was it her? My mother, alive, taunting me? Or Department 77, playing their game, slipping this into my pocket to fuck with my head?
My brothers’ pranks were crude—fake spiders, whoopee cushions, not this. This was personal, a blade aimed at my heart.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes sharp, searching for a face, a shadow, anything.
Nothing. Just laughter, champagne, the oblivious rich.
Portia was gone, swallowed by the party, and I felt her absence like a wound. I’d been happy, fool enough to think I could keep it, but now it was slipping, my world tilting back to war.
I wanted to chase her, to explain, but what could I say? That my mother’s ghost was hunting me? That 77 was closing in, and I’d brought her into their sights?
I was no good for her, never had been, but I’d let myself believe it, let her fire burn away my shadows. Now they were back, darker, colder, and I was losing her.
I bent down, my hand shaking, and picked up the ribbon. The metal was heavy, the etching clear—My Silas. Soon.
I clenched it, my knuckles white, my rage a quiet storm. I’d find who did this. I’d end them.
But first, I had to find Portia, had to make her see I wasn’t the danger, even if I didn’t believe it myself.
I shoved the ribbon in my pocket, my fancy shoes heavy on the grass, and headed into the crowd, my happiness gone, my war back, and her name the only thing keeping me from breaking.
19
PORTIA
Icouldn’t breathe in my dress.
It wasn’t just the trim waistline—though that certainly didn’t help. It was everything. The weight of the fabric. The sharp prickle of the tags still tucked into the seam.
It was the way it made me feel seen.
Not admired. Not beautiful. Seen.
And I hated that.
I closed the door to my suite at The Palmetto Rose and leaned back against the wall, chest heaving. My reflection stared at me from the mirror across the room—still flawless, still composed. But it was a lie. A perfect fucking lie.
The dress clung like it had been tailored to my ache, every seam stitched from pressure and performance. My hair was in a sleek twist, sprayed into place hours ago. My lipstick was barely smudged from fake smiles and polite laughter. I looked exactly how I was supposed to.
And I’d never felt more like a fraud.
I stumbled out of my heels. My arches screamed, grateful and resentful all at once. I dropped to the floor beside the faintingsofa, the cool hardwood kissing my knees. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just breathed. Shallow, ragged breaths that echoed too loud in the quiet.
I didn’t hear the knock. I didn’t hear the door open.
I only felt the warmth of him—Monte—slipping inside the room without a sound, then easing down to sit beside me like he’d done it a thousand times. Maybe he had.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. He just sat.
I stared at the hem of my dress pooling like a spilled secret.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
His voice came low. Even. “You already are.”
“No,” I said, louder now. “You don’t understand. I’m unraveling. And no one can see it because I’m too good at hiding it. I’m the one they trust. The one who fixes everything. But I can’t—” My voice cracked. “I can’t even fix myself.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. Monte, always the still center in every storm.
