I stared at her, my mind a blast zone. She was part of the problem, a snake slithering into the lion’s den, her hands as bloody as mine.
But she was my mother, the woman who’d loved me, who’d stayed to protect us. I couldn’t believe she’d betray us, not after that embrace, not after her tears on that porch.
“Who’s Number 1?” I asked, my voice low, dreading the answer.
She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing, her voice slow, like she savored the words. “My father. Your grandfather. And it’s time to kill the son of a bitch for everyone’s sake.”
My breath stopped, the bourbon burning in my throat. My grandfather, the man who’d created 77, who’d corrupted it, who’d driven my parents apart. The man who’d made my mother a ghost, who’d left us to think she was dead.
I wanted to ask more, to demand the whole story, but her face—hard, haunted—told me she’d said enough for now. The ribbon in my pocket felt heavier, a promise of blood, not love.
I nodded, my jaw tight, my decision made. I’d help her, whatever it took. I’d burn 77 down, end her father, end this war.
We sat in silence, the bourbon gone, the coming night pressing against the windows.
I thought of Portia, her fear, her body under mine in that closet. I’d promised to open up, to tell her everything—my mother, 77, the ghosts that haunted me. But now, with my mother’s plan laid bare, I wasn’t sure I could. Not yet. Not until I knew what it would cost her, what it would cost us.
I stood and looked at my mother, her eyes still sharp, still hers.
“I’m in,” I said, my voice steady. “Whatever it takes.”
She nodded, her smile faint but proud. “I knew you would be, My Silas.”
After some preliminary planning, I left the condo, the night air caressing my skin, my mind a storm of her words, Portia’s touch, and the war I’d just signed up for. I’d see Portia tonight, tell her what I could, but the ribbon, my mother, 77—they were a weight I’d continue to carry alone, at least for now.
I climbed into my truck, the engine roaring to life, and drove toward The Palmetto Rose, her name the only thing keeping me grounded in the chaos.
23
PORTIA
Iwas so tired I could taste it.
The kind of tired that lived in your bones. That blurred the edges of thought, made even silence feel loud. That made the softest thing—sunlight, water, wind—scrape like glass against your skin.
The Palmetto Rose glittered in the late evening light, every pane of its tall windows glowing gold, the fountain in the main courtyard bubbling like it didn’t know how to be anything but cheerful. I passed it slowly, heels dangling from two fingers, bare feet aching against the worn slate path. The last of the sunset was a bruised smear over the rooftops. Charleston at dusk was always trying to be lovely.
I wanted to scream at it.
Instead, I padded around to the private pool area, half-hidden by tall hedges and thick magnolias. The water was still, lit from beneath like a gemstone. Lounge chairs lined the flagstone deck in orderly pairs. A few citronella candles flickered lazily in glass hurricane lanterns.
It was quiet. Blessedly, painfully quiet.
No brides. No call sheets. No fragile egos or vendor meltdowns or thousand-dollar cakes being revised because someone decided that almond was “emotionally triggering.”
Just me. And the water.
I set my heels beside the nearest chair and sank down with a sigh that scraped out of my chest like it had claws. My whole body felt like a pulled thread. I tilted my head back, stared at the sky. The stars hadn’t fully come out yet. I didn’t know if I wanted them to.
The day had been a blur—the cake tasting, back-to-back meetings with florists, a sudden rescheduling crisis involving Hallie Mae’s cousin who’d caught a stomach bug, a dress delivery gone wrong, and at least one groom who’d texted me in a panic because he couldn’t remember which diamond cut his fiancée had chosen for the matching necklace gift.
By the time I returned to the hotel, I’d peeled off my blazer and seriously considered eating a handful of ibuprofen for dinner.
I hadn’t. But I’d thought about it.
Now, in a silky slip dress and a fraying sense of self, I curled into the lounge chair and let my eyes drift shut. Just for a second.
Just long enough to breathe.
