Wife?My brows lift, but I say nothing.
She stands when she sees me, brushing a hand down her leopard-print skirt. The top half of her dark hair is pinned back, the rest spilling down her shoulders in soft waves. Tattoos wind up both arms, vibrant and unapologetic. She’s beautiful in a wild, don’t-touch-me-unless-you’re-serious kind of way.
“Sloane,” she says, offering her hand. “And you must be Candace.”
I shake it, firm. “Nice to meet you.”
Her grip surprises me—strong, sure. A woman who knows the value of standing her ground.
“You too.” She smiles, something flickering behind her eyes. Loneliness? Weariness? She covers it fast. Then she links her arm through mine as if we’re old friends and steers me toward the clubhouse. “C’mon. Maggie and the others are inside.”
Her voice is warm but not overly sweet, suggesting she doesn’t do fake and doesn’t expect it from me either.
“I didn’t even know Knox was married,” I say as we walk.
Her mouth quirks. “That makes two of us.” The shadow behind her smile says more than the words.
I glance back. Knox doesn’t look our way. And Sloane doesn’t wait for him to. It’s not cold exactly. Just… distant. As if they’ve perfected the art of giving each other space.
“It was quick,” she adds after a pause. “A courthouse wedding.”
Her tone is light, too light, but there’s something careful in the way she says it. As though the truth is wrapped up tight behind a practiced smile she’s worn more than once. I don’t push. I recognize the armor when I see it.
Inside, the air is cooler, shadows dancing along the worn floorboards. The space buzzes with soft music, clinking dishes, and overlapping conversations. A few women gather around the pool table, laughing, drinks in hand.
Maggie spots me first. “Candace!!”
She pulls me into a hug, smelling of vanilla and bourbon, her long silver hair tumbling in soft waves past her shoulders. There’s a weathered leather jacket hugging her frame and a glint in her blue-gray eyes that says she’s seen everything and still dares the world to give her more. She presses a kiss to my cheek, and for a moment, I feel the way I did as a kid. Safe, wanted, seen.
My throat swells. A lyric stirs in the back of my mind.Safe is a place, not a person.
“Look at you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. “Beautiful as ever.”
I glance at the food table. “I didn’t bring anything,” I admit, guilt flaring.
Sloane waves it off. “Next time. You’re here. That’s enough.”
Next time.
The words land heavy, sinking straight into my chest. They’re a stone dropped in deep water. I don’t know why it hits me so hard. Maybe because part of me wants there to be a next time. Maybe because, for a moment, I let myself believe this could feel close to home again.
My fingers brush the edge of the folded lyric page in my pocket. One day, the words I’ve written will carry me somewhere new. But for now… maybe this is enough.
I sit with them, letting the rhythm of their laughter and conversation wash over me; it feels warm sunlight streaming through a cracked window. I sip the sweet tea someone shoved into my hand. It’s too sugary, but familiar in a way that’s hard tohate. The longer I stay, the easier it gets. These women are loud and bold and complicated, yet somehow, I don’t feel out of place.
No one looks at me as if I’m broken. No one tiptoes around, waiting for me to snap. They see me. Not as Chuck’s kid. Not as some girl with too much baggage and a disappearing act on standby. Just… me.
Despite everything I’ve told myself, despite the years I’ve spent building walls so high no one could scale them, I want to stay.
But wanting something that badly? That’s dangerous. That’s how you get hurt.
So I fold that feeling up and tuck it somewhere deep, behind all the other things I refuse to want. I won’t let myself hope too much. I won’t let myself reach. Not yet.
Chapter 14
Malachi
Theairinthemeeting room is thick with unspoken frustration. Nash, East, and I sit in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we wait for James and Knox to return. The ceiling fan hums overhead, stirring stale air scented with old coffee, leather, and tension that never quite clears from these walls. Chuck still hasn’t shown up. That fact alone gnaws at me. We extended a hand, but he’s too far gone to reach for it. A dull ache builds behind my temples. Frustration, sure, but something heavier too. A weight I can’t shake whenever her name is even close to this room.
