Chapter 3
PORTIA
I t was barely noon, and I already needed a tranquilizer.
Or a nap. A very long one. With blackout curtains and maybe a mild coma.
I was staying just down the road at a boutique hotel called The Palmetto Rose—all crisp linens and rose-scented hallways, the kind of place where even the bellhop looked like he knew secrets.
I’d heard that Isabel worked there in some kind of executive capacity, which raised a whole new set of questions—especially since the place was owned by the Danes.
Former military men turned billionaires running luxury real estate and private security firms?
Sure. But hospitality? That felt … unexpected.
I made a mental note to ask Isabel about it later, if I could get her alone.
There was a story there. I could feel it.
Instead of a nap, I had a clipboard, six weddings to execute, and approximately zero help from the men allegedly starring in them.
I’d excused myself from the “war room”—and yes, that’s what they actually called it—with a tight smile and a vague comment about needing to assess exterior logistics. No one offered to join. No one asked questions.
Typical.
I stepped out into the light and let the sun hit my face, just long enough to burn the tension out of my jaw. The breeze off the harbor was stronger than expected, fluttering the corners of my blouse and lifting the scent of salt and old wood.
Dominion Hall looked like it had been carved from ambition, all stone and glass and steel and modernity. Nothing frilly or too feminine. Just expansive grounds, thick walkways, and water views so grand they felt offensive.
I made my way down the back path, clipboard in hand, scanning potential ceremony spots—front lawn? Too gaudy. Courtyard? Too echoey. Dock? Gorgeous … but a logistical nightmare if the Yorktown stunt actually happened.
I paused at the far edge of the property where the dock extended into the harbor like a middle finger aimed at tradition. It was wide enough to support an entrance, maybe a setup for Ryker’s water approach. I scribbled notes, drew a rough layout.
If I used the lawn leading to the dock as a staging area, I could line it with lanterns or hurricane vases, create a romantic glow leading all the way to the platform.
The harbor breeze could either be a dream or a disaster—I'd need to anchor every chair, secure every floral arrangement, double the tape on the aisle runner.
Fabric draping was a no-go unless I wanted it flapping like a busted sail in all the photos.
Sound would be an issue, too. Outdoor mics.
Wind shields. Maybe a discreet speaker rig along the perimeter, something hidden in floral towers or disguised beneath decorative fencing.
I’d need to confirm wattage with the grounds crew and make sure any wiring wouldn’t trip someone’s grandma on the way to her seat.
Then there was the weather. Charleston was basically polite hell all year round—sun one minute, thunder the next.
I’d need a full rain contingency: tent rentals with high-clearance peaks, clear siding to keep the view but block the wind, backup flooring to cover the grass in case it turned to mud.
And not just any tent—something architectural, something elegant, not a sad circus shelter flapping against white linens.
That meant permits, inspections, walk-throughs with the vendors.
I made a note to loop Teddy in on that, or to find out who would run point, if not him.
The lighting alone was a whole separate battle.
String lights from the trees could create a canopy, but I’d have to calculate distances, power sources, weight-bearing limits on the branches.
And I’d need to know the sunset time to plan the ceremony lighting shift from natural golden hour to man-made ambiance.
Restroom access, parking coordination, guest transportation, emergency medical equipment—everything had to be mapped, documented, scheduled down to the minute.
I wasn’t just planning a wedding. I was orchestrating a live, open-air production with no margin for error and a cast of six alpha grooms who wanted dramatic entrances that wouldn’t make them look like fools.
I tapped the edge of my pen against my clipboard.
If I pulled this off, it wouldn’t just be a wedding. It would be the kind of event that made other planners either call me for advice or quietly hate me forever.
I intended to give them plenty of reason for both.
Then I caught my reflection in the water.
My shoulders were hunched.
I straightened them fast.
I hated that this place had gotten under my skin already. Hated that those men—those oversized, emotionally constipated G.I. Joes—had rolled over my plan like I was some intern with a color wheel and a Pinterest board.
I was Portia fucking Lane.
I hadn’t clawed my way out of small-town Arkansas just to be dismissed by a room full of tactical testosterone and ego.
I’d started with nothing—no connections, no capital, not even a last name anyone cared about.
Just a borrowed blazer, a busted laptop, and a vision board taped to the back of a bathroom door in a one-bedroom sublet.
I’d cold-emailed venues until my fingers cramped.
Taken jobs no one else wanted—elopements in diners, shotgun weddings on dirt roads, family brawls over flower arrangements.
In Atlanta, reputation was currency, and I’d minted mine from scratch.
I’d walked into rooms where I didn’t belong and made damn sure I did by the time I left.
I’d learned to speak fluent luxury—how to navigate clients who name-dropped producers, how to make a tent on a budget look like a Vogue spread, how to hold my tongue when a mother-of-the-bride insulted my shoes but still cut the check.
Every favor I’d called in, every sleepless night, every time I’d swallowed pride or fury to protect the brand—I’d built this life. Brick by brick. Deal by deal. Contract by contract.
I wasn't about to let the Dane brothers treat me like a decorative extra.
I'd handled a bride who faked her own death to test her fiancé. I’d coordinated a wedding on a moving yacht with three ex-girlfriends onboard. I had this.
I just needed to reassert control.
Which is when I heard the creak of footsteps behind me.
I turned fast—clipboard up, instinct sharp—but it wasn’t a threat.
Not exactly.
Silas Dane walked down the path like he wasn’t following me. Like I’d somehow appeared in the space he was already headed toward. Casual. Silent. Dangerous as hell.
He was dressed the same: black shirt, black jeans, boots that didn’t make a sound. The breeze moved through his short hair, but his face stayed carved in stone. Eyes unreadable. Shoulders loose. Like nothing in the world could touch him unless he let it.
And yeah, I’d dated men like that before. I liked them tall. Broad. Cut from muscle and quiet danger. The kind of men who didn’t flinch when I told them exactly what I wanted—and exactly how I wanted it.
I didn’t do soft. I didn’t do clingy. I liked hands on my hips and teeth at my throat. I liked weight and control and the low, hungry sound a man made right before he lost it between my legs.
But I didn’t believe in the rest. The forever stuff. The falling. That wasn’t real—it was chemicals and timing and too many Disney movies. Real love? That was a fairytale. A branding exercise. A lie we dressed up in flowers and white dresses and overpriced cake.
Companionship, though? That was useful. A body. A breath. A night. Sometimes a weekend, if the chemistry was good and the playlist didn’t suck. But anything more than that? Anything deeper?
I knew better.
“I thought you didn’t commit,” I said, forcing my tone breezy as I pretended to adjust something on my clipboard.
“I don’t.”
“So you just ... appear. Coincidentally. In the exact spot where I’m working.”
His eyes flicked to the clipboard, then to my face.
“You’re bleeding.”
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded once, and I followed his gaze to the edge of my palm. A thin slice ran diagonally across my skin, beading up just enough to sting.
Damn paper edges on these laminated maps.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, shifting to hide it.
But he didn’t move on. Didn’t brush past or make some dismissive grunt like I expected.
Instead, he stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that I caught the scent of him—clean, cool despite the warm air, something faintly metallic. Like the inside of a weapons locker or a storm about to break.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” he said. “I said you were bleeding.”
Before I could answer, his fingers wrapped around my wrist—lightly, not controlling, but deliberate. Like he was testing the feel of me. Like he wanted to see if I’d pull away.
I should have.
I didn’t.
His thumb brushed across the cut. Just once. Just enough to make the breath catch in my throat.
“Keep moving like that and you’ll tear it deeper,” he said, voice low.
“It’s a scratch.”
“You plan to bleed on the party favors?”
“Do you plan to make everything weird?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t smile.
Just looked at me like he’d already undressed every layer of me and wasn’t particularly impressed. Or maybe he was, and that was worse.
I jerked my hand back and took a step away, tucking the clipboard against my chest like a shield.
I had work to do.
Not fantasies. Not distractions. Not jawlines like his or forearms that looked like they could pin a woman down and make her forget her own name.
This job mattered.
The Dane brothers hadn’t plucked me out of a stack of Atlanta planners just because I was good with monograms and could tell peonies from garden roses.
They chose me because I was the best. Because I had a reputation for pulling off the impossible without cracking a single nail.
And this? Six weddings. One month. VIPs, cameras, military-grade egos.
It wasn’t just a production—it was a career launcher.
A legacy maker. A headline waiting to happen.
I knew for a fact there were planners all over Charleston, probably half the ones on King Street alone, who were furious they hadn’t gotten the call.
Not to mention the names out of New York or Chicago—the coastal elite with their luxury price tags and year-long waitlists. But the Danes had trusted me. Me.
I wasn’t going to let them down because I’d gotten soft over a pair of haunted eyes and a voice that dripped like molasses laced with sin.
Still, my gaze dropped—traitorous, slow—to the way his shirt stretched across his chest. The way his belt rode low on his hips. The quiet flex of his thighs when he shifted his weight, casual and unaware of just how obscene his stillness was.
He looked like he’d be brutal in bed. Focused. Unapologetic. The kind of man who didn’t ask permission before he pinned you and made you beg. I imagined what that mouth would feel like against my skin. What that body would do to mine.
Heat curled low in my stomach.
No. Hell no.
This was business. Strictly business. And I didn’t sleep with clients. Especially not clients who made my pulse stutter like a broken metronome.
I cleared my throat and forced my eyes back to his. Level. Unflinching.
“I have work to do.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
But he stood there, unmoving. Watching.
I turned before he could say anything else and forced myself to walk. One step. Then another.
The skin on my wrist tingled.
He hadn’t been rough. Hadn’t even held me tight.
But I felt it anyway. Like a fingerprint on glass. Like a mark that wasn’t going to fade anytime soon.
And as I walked back toward the house, I realized something far worse than the fact that I’d let him touch me.
I wanted him to do it again.