Chapter 4 #2
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 under rich 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.
Watching her curl her feet under her on the couch, wine glass balanced easily in her hand, I felt the sharp contrast like a bruise.
She had chosen comfort and called it love.
I had chosen danger and hadn’t even said its name out loud yet.
At ten, I hugged her goodbye and walked to my car.
The Charleston air was cool. The streetlights soft.
My phone buzzed the moment I got into the driver’s seat.
Unknown number.
Good. You didn’t tell her.
My hands went still on the steering wheel.
My mouth went dry.
I read it again.
Then a second message came.
Go home. Lock the door. Sleep. Tomorrow you travel.
A third followed, like an afterthought that wasn’t an afterthought at all.
Don’t wear panties to the airport.
Heat slammed through me so fast I sucked in a breath.
I stared at the phone, pulse roaring in my ears, shame and arousal tangling together until I couldn’t separate them.
I should’ve been furious.
I should’ve thrown the phone into the passenger seat and told myself this was unacceptable.
Instead, my thighs pressed together on instinct.
My body’s traitorous readiness made my eyes sting with something like rage.
“How dare you,” I whispered, but my voice trembled.
My phone buzzed once more.
You asked.
That was all.
Two words.
I sat there in the dark car for a long moment, breathing shallow, feeling my own pulse like a drum.
Because he was right.
I had asked.
I had invited this.
And now he was taking what I’d offered—my secrecy, my attention, my obedience—one quiet command at a time.
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan again, listening to it spin like it always had, while my mind ran a loop: plane, New York, summit, dinner.
Hunter.
I pictured him the way my body wanted to picture him: broad-shouldered, steady hands, a presence that filled a room without noise. A man who didn’t knock. A man who didn’t soften.
My phone stayed silent.
But his instructions stayed inside me, threaded into my thoughts.
At five a.m., I got up and showered. Not because I needed to. Because the heat under my skin had nowhere else to go.
The water ran hot, then cold, and I stood there until my body felt like it belonged to me again.
Then I stepped out, towel-dried my hair, and went to my dresser.
I stared at the lace drawer.
Don’t wear panties, he’d said.
I should’ve ignored him.
I should’ve done the opposite out of spite.
Instead, my fingers hovered over the fabric like I was standing at the edge of something.
I imagined him somewhere north, already awake. Already sure. Already knowing I’d hesitate.
I swallowed and shut the drawer.
No panties.
My cheeks burned as I dressed—again in ivory and black, because it was safe and sharp and my armor had to be perfect if I was going to do this. An ivory turtleneck. Black trousers. Wool coat. Boots. Gold chain.
And underneath it all, nothing.
It felt obscene. It felt ridiculous. It felt like a secret.
Every step through my condo made me hyperaware of my body. The brush of fabric. The cool air. The fact that I was doing something I’d never done before for no reason except a man I hadn’t met had told me to.
A man I had asked for.
When the car service arrived—black sedan, tinted windows, driver in a suit—I didn’t flinch.
I should have.
But when the driver said, “Ms. Quinn? I’m here to take you to the airport,” my stomach flipped with a dark thrill.
Because it had begun.
Not with a knock on my door.
Not with a stranger in my living room.
With movement.
With travel.
With the sense of being guided—quietly, relentlessly—into a colder world where my rules didn’t matter.
I stepped into the back seat, the leather cool beneath me, and as the car pulled away from my condo, I looked out at Charleston’s soft winter morning and realized I wasn’t scared of going north.
I was scared of how much I wanted to.
And somewhere inside that fear—deep, hot, humiliating—was the dangerous truth I’d been circling since the letter:
If he was real …
I didn’t want to survive him unchanged.