Pulling an operator off an op to play with the CIA was one thing. Bureaucracy. Paperwork. Channels that existed, even if most people didn't know about them. Inter-agency cooperation that happened in shadows but followed rules, however bent they were.
But negating mandatory service with the stroke of a pen? Making years of commitment disappear? That was something else entirely. That was power. The kind that didn't ask permission. The kind that operated above systems most people thought were fixed and immutable.
The kind that made me wonder exactly who Micah's family was, and how deep their influence actually went.
I needed to find out more about Dominion Hall. What it really was. Who was behind it. What "family money" actually meant when it could erase military contracts like they'd never existed.
And I thought I had just the right person to ask.
11
SOPHIE
By the time I made it back to The Palmetto Rose, the morning sun had fully committed.
Charleston didn’t do half-effort weather. The sky was a clean, endless blue, the kind that made you forget deadlines and obligations existed at all. Palmetto fronds rustled lazily in the breeze, shadows shifting across the pale stone patio that wrapped around the pool like an invitation to stay a while.
Beth was already stretched out on a lounger, oversized sunglasses on, one leg bent, the other dangling lazily over the side. Natasha sat upright at the small table between chairs, scrolling on her phone with one hand while sipping something iced and pink with the other.
“There she is,” Beth called. “The woman of the hour.”
I dropped my bag on the chair beside them. “You say that like I’ve been gone all day.”
Natasha glanced up. “Long enough.”
“It was coffee,” I said, peeling off my sandals and letting my toes hit the warm stone. “And conversation.”
“And sexual tension,” Beth added.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re projecting.”
Natasha smiled faintly. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s humidity,” I said quickly, even as heat crept into my cheeks.
The pool shimmered in front of us, water catching the light in gentle ripples. A couple lounged at the far end, sharing headphones. Somewhere, a server laughed softly as they set down towels for another guest. The whole place felt unhurried—like Charleston itself had decided to take a long lunch and never come back.
I sank into the chair, exhaling. “Okay. You can ask your questions.”
Beth sat up instantly. “Excellent.”
Natasha angled her chair toward me. “Start from the beginning.”
“He’s … still him,” I said slowly, choosing my words. “But also not. Taller. Broader. More … settled in his body.”
Beth smirked. “Settled where, exactly?”
“Beth.”
“I’m just saying.”
“He’s charming,” I admitted. “In that quiet way that sneaks up on you. And he looks—” I stopped, laughed softly. “He looks unfair.”
Natasha hummed. “He does.”
We ordered lunch—salads piled with grilled chicken and citrus vinaigrette, fries we pretended were for sharing but weren’t, iced teas sweating in the heat. When the food arrived, we rearranged ourselves around the little table, plates balanced on our knees like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“And,” Beth said between bites. “Line dancing tonight.”
