Harper softened, crossing the room and sitting beside me. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
I could’ve told her then. I could’ve cracked the box open and let everything spill onto her velvet couch.
But the thought of saying Alpha Mail out loud made my throat close.
Everyone had heard of it by now. Not officially—never officially—but in the way Charleston circulated rumors the same way it circulated invitations. Quietly. Selectively. Over cocktails and “just between us” conversations that pretended not to be hungry for scandal.
It was whispered about in bathrooms. In corners of rooftop bars. In texts that disappeared as soon as they were read. A service for powerful women who wanted something they couldn’t afford to want publicly. No names. No photos. No proof. Just stories—half-believed, half-envied—about men who showed up and rearranged lives.
Harper had definitely heard. Of course, she had. She lived in the same city, moved through the same rooms, listened to the same murmurs. She’d probably laughed it off, rolled her eyes, filed it underrich women doing reckless things.
She wouldn’t expect it to be me.
The thought of admitting I’d crossed that line—asked for a hunter, asked to be tracked—made shame flare like heat under my skin.
So, I did what I did best.
I smiled like a professional.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just … need a change of scenery.”
Harper didn’t look convinced. She reached over and squeezed my hand. “You know you can tell me anything.”
I nodded, because that was what friends did.
And then I didn’t tell her.
Because wanting a man to take control wasn’t something I’d ever put into words outside of that letter.
Because I didn’t know what it meant about me.
Because the truth was too intimate to be spoken in a living room with candles and art and normal life.
Harper held my gaze a second longer, then exhaled. “Fine. I won’t interrogate you. But I’m coming over tomorrow to help you pack.”
My blood ran cold.
“No,” I said too quickly.
Harper blinked. “Why not?”
“I … already packed,” I lied. “Mostly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Lia.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
Harper’s smile returned, slower now. “Okay,” she said, and her voice had a warning edge. “But if you text me at midnight from New York saying you’ve joined a cult, I’m calling the National Guard.”
I laughed, because it was easier than breathing.
We drank wine and watched a movie neither of us paid attention to. Harper talked about her plans for a spring fundraiser—venue ideas, donor tiers, which board members would need extra hand-holding.
She mentioned Luca in passing, the way married women do when stability has become background noise. He was working late. He’d promised to pick up the dry cleaning. He’d probably fall asleep before the movie ended.
I nodded at the right places, laughed at the right places, tried to be the version of myself who didn’t have a hunter’s words sitting in her pocket.
Harper and Luca made sense together. Safe sense. The kind built on shared calendars and mutual respect and a future that didn’t require risk to feel real.
