“There’s a photo,” she said, sliding her phone across the table.
I looked.
It was grainy but unmistakable: Cassian and me leaving the airport yesterday, his hand on my lower back, my head tilted toward him. Someone had captioned it:
Spotted: Lia Quinn, local violence prevention advocate, cozying up to a man who reportedly owns private hunting preserves in Upstate NY and Africa. The irony is thicker than Charleston humidity.
The post had been shared sixty-seven times. Comments ranged from disappointed to vicious.
My stomach dropped.
Harper watched my face. “It’s starting, Lia. A local reporter already emailed me asking for comment. They’re digging.”
Luca spoke quietly. “They found property records. Cassian Locke owns three parcels zoned for ‘recreational preserve.’ One has been used for guided big-game hunts. High-end clients. Special permits.”
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
“He never told me the specifics,” I said.
Harper’s voice softened, but only a fraction. “Would it have mattered?”
I didn’t answer.
Because it would have. And it wouldn’t.
I pushed the phone back. “I need to talk to him.”
Luca nodded. “You do. But before you do—think about what you want. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want.”
Harper reached across the table, squeezed my hand. “We love you. Whatever you choose. But don’t pretend this doesn’t cost something.”
I drove back to South of Broad in silence.
Cassian was in the courtyard when I arrived, sitting on the edge of the fountain, elbows on his knees, looking at nothing in particular. He stood the second he saw me.
I didn’t speak at first. I just held up my phone, the photo visible.
He looked at it. Then at me.
“You knew this would happen,” I said.
“I knew it was possible.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
I stepped closer. “You own hunting preserves. You facilitate trophy hunts.”
He didn’t flinch. “I own land. I lease portions to outfitters who run permitted hunts. I don’t pull the triggers.”
“But you profit from it.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was worse than evasion.
I laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Do you know what my donors will say? What my board will ask?”
