Whatever it was—it didn’t just belong to him. It belonged to me, too. Whether I liked it or not.
The air inside the house felt heavy now—too polished, too curated, like the truth didn’t know how to breathe in it. I stood, murmured something that could’ve passed for goodnight, and slipped out the side door before either of them could stop me.
The porch creaked beneath my bare feet as I stepped into the humid Charleston night. The sky was still dusky blue, stars beginning to puncture the velvet dome overhead.
I made my way to the edge of the garden path, past the boxwoods and moonlit hydrangeas, stopping beneath the willow tree I used to hide under when I was little. Back then, the worst thing I had to worry about was whether my ballet shoes would fit or if the girls at cotillion would laugh at me.
Now?
Now there was a man out there with my heart in his hands, and a legacy unraveling beneath my feet.
I wrapped my arms around myself and looked up at the stars. Charlie was somewhere out there. And I didn’t know if he’d call tonight or tomorrow or ever again.
I wanted him to.
Not for comfort. Not even for clarity.
I wanted him because he made me feel more like myself than I ever had before. Because he wasn’t afraid of what he saw when he looked at me—and he made me want to be brave enough to look back.
I pulled out my phone again. Nothing. Just the same blank screen, same silence that made my stomach twist.
I didn’t call this time. Didn’t text.
I just stood there under the willow, arms crossed, heart open, and whispered to the breeze, “Come back to me.”
I sure as hell hoped he would.
22
CHARLIE
My head was a goddamn war zone, Sylvia Carrington’s words—You have his eyes—looping like a broken record, tearing open scars I thought I’d stitched shut years ago.
I sat in my truck, the North End’s shadows pressing against the windows, and considered heading to the clinic, where I could lose myself in stitching wounds and handing out cash. But my spinning mind, tangled with questions about Sylvia and my father, wasn’t fit for public consumption—too raw, too unsteady to be trusted with someone else’s pain.
Had they just dated, a fleeting romance as she’d claimed, or was it something deeper, something that left her trembling decades later? The way she’d reacted, fear and memory etched into her face, suggested more than a broken heart. Byron’s gravitas was legendary, but could it really linger this long, past any statute of limitations on love?
I gripped the wheel, tempted to make a beeline for the Carrington estate to demand answers, but my gut churned, and I made a sharp right instead, craving a drink to dull the mind-fuck that was my life right now. Sullivan’s Island hadn’t given me peace, and neither would work, but a dive bar might—someplace where the whiskey burned and the questions stayed quiet.
I found one on Shem Creek, a weathered shack called The Rusty Anchor, its neon sign flickering like it was on its last legs. My truck fit right in among the beat-up pickups and rusted sedans in the lot, the kind of place where locals kept to themselves and didn’t ask names.
The air inside was thick with cigarette smoke and salt, the jukebox crooning some old Merle Haggard tune, and I slid onto a barstool, the cracked vinyl creaking under me.
“Shot of Jack,” I told the bartender, a grizzled guy with a beard that looked like it had seen better decades.
He poured it without a word, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and I knocked it back, the burn grounding me for a fleeting second.
That’s when I saw it through the window—a rental sedan, its headlights off, pulling into the lot like a predator circling prey. My pulse kicked up, and then Marshall fucking Preston stepped out, still dressed like a country club Ken doll, strolling into the bar like he owned the place.
He slid onto the stool next to me, his cologne cutting through the smoke like a cheap knife, and flashed a haughty grin.
“Tom Collins,” he told the bartender, who raised an eyebrow and said he was fresh out of the fancy shit. Marshall shrugged, his eyes flicking to my empty glass. “I’ll have what Charlie Dane’s having, then.”
The name dropped like a stone, and a couple of regulars glanced over, their eyes sharp before they turned away, sensing trouble.
I wanted to throttle him, to wipe that smug look off his face with everything I had, my fists itching to connect, but I held back, watching as the bartender poured a stiff shot of Jack andslid it to Marshall. The prick sniffed it, made a face like it was piss, and took a sip, wincing like he’d never tasted real whiskey before.
I leaned back, my voice low and cold. “You lost, Preston?”
