Chapter 9
9
ANNA
I Googled him.
I’m not proud of it, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t.
After yesterday’s lunch at Verandelle, after Lindsey said his name like it should mean something—and oh, it did—I’d gone straight home, opened my laptop, and typed “Atlas Dane Dominion Hall Charleston” into the search bar like a woman possessed.
The results weren’t exactly helpful.
There were no official social media accounts. No interviews. No promotional photos. Not even a bio. Just whispers—half-legends and shadowy mentions in gossip blogs, articles speculating about the Dane family fortune, and rumors about their sprawling, private estate on the harbor, surrounded by gates, silence, and secrets.
Dominion Hall. Untouchable.
Apparently, there’d been a masquerade ball at Dominion Hall not long ago. A rare event by all accounts—an invitation-only gala where the guest list read like a Forbes profile and the rumors spilled out faster than the champagne. Lavish. Unsettling. Exclusive. And according to certain corners of the internet, cursed.
One guest, a man named Diego Gil, had vanished the night of the event. His body turned up in the pool at The Palmetto Rose hotel—lifeless and shrouded in mystery.
Claire Dixon, host of a true crime podcast called The Unseen , had gone live in the weeks after with a frantic, heartbreaking episode. Diego had been her best friend. Her episode quickly went viral, mostly because she had pleaded with her listeners to help her locate Charleston’s mayor, Evelyn Hart, insisting the mayor knew more than she was admitting.
Claire’s name came up again and again in the search results, especially when I dug into anything connected to the Danes. Her podcast had become something of a digital rabbit hole. She had talked about them often. Dominion Hall. The brothers.
I wasn’t much of a podcast listener, but I made a note to check it out the next time I had a free hour and a strong drink.
Because apparently, Dominion Hall was where I’d spent the night in a man’s arms—metaphorically, if not literally. And I didn’t even know how to reach him.
I’d stared at the screen long after the search results blurred. One hand pressed to my chest, trying to calm the ache, the need. The name alone haunted me now. Atlas Dane.
God.
How had I let him walk away without a phone number? A last name? A way?
Now, I was at rehearsal, pretending I wasn’t crawling out of my skin.
The Charleston Philharmonic’s main rehearsal space, the Cooper River Conservatory, was a gleaming monument to the city’s devotion to the arts. Perched near the banks of the Cooper River, it offered glimpses of the water from its upper balconies, where the breeze sometimes slipped through tall windows.
The building itself was all polished stone and sweeping arches, with grand staircases that curved like music in motion. Inside, the main hall glittered with crystal chandeliers, pale blue ceiling frescoes, and intricate gold trim. It was lavish without being gaudy.
Every time I stepped inside, the air shifted. Conversations softened, posture straightened, and even silence carried weight. The acoustics were flawless, the space alive with the echo of excellence. You didn’t just play music here. You performed, even when no one was watching.
I adjusted the angle of my harp, tightened my shoulders, and tried to focus. Strings were warming up around me. Lindsey gave me a small smile from her chair across the room. Marion nodded politely as she tuned. But the air felt strange. Tense. Braced for something.
Then I heard Eugene’s voice.
“Let’s try the overture. Without ego from the woodwinds.”
I stiffened before I even looked his way.
Ugh. That man.
He strode into the rehearsal space like he owned the building. Maybe he did, in his own mind. His suit was charcoal, tailored, and perfectly pressed, but no amount of bespoke fashion could hide the bitterness etched into his features.
His eyes swept the ensemble like a hawk scanning for weakness. And when they landed on me?
He smirked.
My stomach dropped.
We weren’t supposed to cross paths today. His calendar had said meeting with the board, something off-site. But clearly, Eugene had changed his plans. Just to remind me who held the baton.
The rehearsal began again—Tchaikovsky’s “Capriccio Italien”—and I did what I always did.
I played.
But Eugene wouldn’t let it be that simple.
“Anna,” he called out halfway through the second movement, stopping everything with a sharp gesture. “You’re dragging.”
My hands froze on the strings. “I’m playing the tempo as marked.”
This wasn’t fifth grade orchestra. I was a professional. If I was off, I’d know it.
“It’s not about tempo,” he said coolly, stepping closer. “It’s about energy. Intention. Try not to let your ... personal life bleed into your musicianship.”
A ripple of discomfort spread through the room.
Lindsey’s eyes snapped to mine. Marion stiffened in her chair. Leah kept her gaze straight ahead, on her music stand.
I stared at Eugene, my fingers numb.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“You heard me.”
The words hung there. Heavy. Public.
He’d done it.
He’d humiliated me in front of my peers.
Not as my ex-fiancé. Not even as a man. But as my conductor. My supposed superior.
What an asshole. I mean, a grade-A, nasty-as-they-come asshole.
I nodded once. My throat was tight. “Then maybe you should play it for me, Eugene. Show us how it's done.”
The silence was ice.
Eugene’s jaw twitched. He gave a brittle smile. “Just watch your dynamics, Miss Peters. Unless you want me to have another conversation with the board.”
There it was.
The threat. The control. The reminder that my position here—my future—was still in his hands.
I said nothing. But my chest was burning.
What I wanted to say was that if anyone in the room had received a wedding invitation, it was because Eugene’s fragile ego couldn’t bear the humiliation of canceling them. Not because a wedding was actually happening. Not because I had any intention of walking down the aisle with a man who had humiliated me, lied to me, and treated my heart like an inconvenience.
I thought of my parents—the way their voices had cracked when I told them the engagement was off. They weren’t dramatic people. They didn’t raise their voices. But that day? My mother had gone silent for a full thirty seconds. My father had muttered something in Russian that translated, loosely, to let him rot.
They had taken it seriously. Of course, they had. They’d sent gifts. Booked airfare. My mother had already bought her dress. My father had arranged time off from MIT, which was no small feat. And then there was the honeymoon package—they’d surprised us with an all-inclusive trip to the Bahamas as an early wedding present. My parents didn’t throw money around. They had struggled for everything, scraped and saved when they were young, leaving their homeland behind in pursuit of a life that offered more than survival. They believed in vows. In loyalty. In building something that could last.
They would never treat an engagement as something disposable. And yet Eugene had. He’d made a fool out of me—and, worse, he’d disrespected them.
That was the part that stuck like a splinter in my throat.
We finished the rehearsal in silence, and when it ended, I didn’t linger. I packed up my harp like it was a weapon, like I was marching to war, and ignored the way Lindsey shot me a look that said Don’t let him get to you .
But he already had.
After stowing my harp in the secured instrument room at the conservatory, I walked out into the Charleston heat, past the moss, past the heady perfume of gardenias and magnolias, and the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone.
I turned toward Queen Street.
Toward the only woman in this city who might know how to reach Atlas.
Opal Norwood.
The Lantern Room.
I didn’t know what I would say when I got there. Didn’t know how much she knew or how much she would be willing to tell.
I was done waiting. I needed answers. I needed him .
I left my car parked behind the Conservatory, tucked into the private staff lot shaded by a row of live oaks. I didn’t know what the parking situation would be like on Queen Street, and I didn’t care to circle the block while my nerves frayed themselves raw. Walking felt right—necessary, even. I needed the movement. The space. The time to collect what remained of my composure.
Charleston buzzed with life. The sidewalks glistened under the sun, and the pastel buildings leaned into the light like they’d been waiting for this exact glow.
I moved through it all with tunnel vision.
Tourists clustered beneath wide-brimmed hats, snapping photos of wrought iron balconies and peeling paint like they were relics. A horse-drawn carriage rattled past me, the driver tipping his hat to a couple holding iced coffees and matching tote bags from the Charleston Market. Every corner pulsed with music and history.
I barely heard it.
Halfway down Church Street, I bumped into something solid.
“Woah!”
It wasn’t a something. It was a someone.
A small boy—no more than six—stumbled back from the impact, a popsicle dripping purple down his arm. I reached out instinctively, catching his shoulder before he could fall.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, crouching slightly. “Are you okay?”
He blinked up at me, eyes wide, a violet smear on his cheek. “I’m fine,” he said gravely, like a tiny Southern gentleman.
His mother appeared a second later, flustered but kind. “Oh, my goodness, he darted ahead of me. I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“No, it was my fault,” I said quickly, rising to my feet. “I wasn’t looking.”
“You all right, son?” she asked him, brushing the sticky streak from his cheek with a napkin. “You scared that lady.”
The boy looked up at me, then nodded solemnly. “You look sad.”
That hit harder than I expected.
“I’m okay,” I managed, offering a smile I didn’t feel. “Just … distracted.”
He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. Then he offered me the rest of his popsicle.
“For you.”
“That’s very sweet, but I think you should keep it.”
He shrugged and popped it back in his mouth like it hadn’t ever left. His mom apologized again, and I watched them disappear into the crowd, her hand wrapped protectively around his small one.
I stood still for a second longer, breathing in the moment. The people here were so nice.
And I was sad. Distracted.
Well.
Not for much longer.
I turned onto Queen Street, the noise and color softening into something quieter. Here, the buildings leaned closer together, the air shaded by overhanging porches and tangled vines. Just ahead—half swallowed by ivy and nestled between a used gallery and a boutique that smelled like old perfume—it appeared.
The Lantern Room.
The windows were tall and warped, the glass wavy like it had been poured by hand. The brass sign above the door gleamed dully in the light, half-hidden by a trailing fern. A single lantern burned in the window, its flickering flame casting long, dancing shadows across the spines of books stacked in the glass.
It looked like it had always been there. Like it had outlasted wars and hurricanes and heartbreaks, and would still be standing long after everything else fell.
I stepped forward and reached for the door.
I prayed that Opal Norwood would be kind. That she’d listen. That she’d help me find him.