Not because I was avoiding Wyatt. Not because I was afraid of what I might see.
Because for the first time in a long while, I wanted to sit inside my own thoughts without interruption.
Afterward, I wandered.
On foot at first—letting the city meet me at walking speed. The harbor stayed close, water flashing between buildings, white boats rocking lazily against docks like they had nowhere else to be. I cut through marinas and past a cluster of sleek condos with glass balconies and rooftop pools—beautiful in a way that feltcurated. Places that photographed well. Places you stayed, not places you rooted yourself.
I didn’t linger.
I caught an Uber and let myself be a passenger, watching Charleston unfold through the window instead of trying to control the route. We drifted away from the polish, away from the shine. The streets narrowed. Trees thickened. Spanish moss sagged between branches like soft punctuation, unbothered by time or traffic.
Neighborhoods opened slowly—older homes with deep porches and ceiling fans turning lazily behind screens. Porch swings that creaked even when no one was sitting on them. Flower boxes overflowing like someone had loved them too much to prune. It smelled like cut grass and salt and something warm baking somewhere unseen.
This felt different.
Lived in.
I imagined it without forcing it.
A place like this. Something modest but intentional. Enough room to breathe. Enough quiet to rest. Somewhere that didn’t demand anything from you the moment you walked through the door.
Somewhere Wyatt could come home and not feel like he was still on alert.
I pictured him here. Boots by the door. A coffee mug in hand. Late nights when he didn’t say much. Mornings when he did. A life that made room for motion and stillness both.
I didn’t imagine him saving me.
I imagined us standing side by side.
Later, as the Uber eased toward Aquarium Wharf, I felt it—quiet and sure. The sense that I wasn’t circling a decision anymore. I was moving toward something that had already made space for me.
The setup for the interview was already underway when I arrived. A small Channel 4 crew, cameras angled to catch the water glittering behind us, a couple of city staffers hovering with clipboards and purpose. Natalie stood near the railing, navy dress, hair pulled back in a ponytail,
posture relaxed but commanding in the way women who knew exactly who they were tended to carry themselves.
She smiled when she saw me. Not a politician’s smile. A human one.
“Sophie,” she said, stepping forward. “You look grounded.”
“I feel grounded,” I said, surprised again by how true it was.
Jax Moore—tall, polished, all camera-ready confidence—introduced himself and ran through the plan quickly. Short segment. Gratitude. Awareness. Keep it clean. Keep it useful.
I was ready.
The camera light flicked on.
Jax smiled into the lens. “I’m here at Aquarium Wharf with Mayor Natalie Kennedy and real-life hero Sophie Clarke?—”
“Natalie Dane,” Natalie corrected smoothly, barely breaking stride. “I got married.”
Jax blinked, then laughed. “Right. Of course. The flood. The horse.”
Natalie’s mouth curved. “Hard to forget.”
I filed that away.
Jax recovered easily. “Mayor Natalie Dane is here today thanking Sophie for her quick thinking and bravery during a dinner cruise incident that could’ve ended very differently.”
