Chapter 5
PORTIA
T he Palmetto Rose looked like it had been plucked from a Charleston travel magazine and spritzed with perfume—grand front porch, antique lanterns, and crepe myrtles that danced like they knew they were being watched.
Everything about it said quiet luxury. Understated money.
The kind that didn’t need five-star ratings to stay booked year-round.
When I’d tried to look it up online, there was next to nothing.
No reviews. No photo tags. No WeddingWire features gushing about the linen thread count or bespoke welcome cocktails.
It wasn’t just odd, it was intentional.
The Danes had scrubbed it, clearly. Maybe to protect their privacy. Maybe to keep certain guests from ending up in search engines. Either way, the message was clear: this place wasn’t for just anyone.
Which made it all the more ironic that I was here on business—checking in, clipboard in hand, scoping it out as a host location for out-of-town guests.
Half the wedding party would be stationed here.
And I needed to know every inch of the place in case a groomsman wandered drunk into the wrong suite or someone’s mother demanded lavender sachets and a hypoallergenic mattress before she’d consider sleeping near salt air.
I stepped through the front doors and was immediately greeted by the soft whoosh of air-conditioning and a voice that practically sparkled.
“Ms. Lane?” the woman at the front desk chirped. “Welcome! We’ve been expecting you.”
She was tall, with honey-gold skin and a riot of curls pulled into a high puff. Her lip gloss caught the light, and her name tag—Sasha—was pinned just off-center over a pale pink blouse with tiny embroidered roses. Everything about her said warm, hospitable, and extremely competent.
“I’m Sasha Bennington,” she added, stepping around the counter with a folder in one hand and an iPad in the other. “Izzy said I should give you the deluxe tour.”
I blinked. “Izzy—as in Isabel Harper, soon to be Dane?”
“That’s the one,” she said with a grin. “We’re old friends. She’s way too cool to admit she basically runs this place, but she does. And since you’re the one planning her wedding, that officially makes you a VIP.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled back. “Nice to meet you.”
Sasha handed me a branded folder with my room keycard slipped inside. “You’re in a suite upstairs, second floor, far corner. Best light in the building and closest to the back staircase in case you want to sneak out for a stress cry without passing guests.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Six weddings, one month, seven of the most intense men I’ve ever seen? If you don’t ugly cry at least once, you’re either a cyborg or possessed by Martha Stewart.”
I laughed, the sound catching me off guard. “Fair.”
She started down a hallway with soft carpet and warm sconces that smelled faintly of citrus and fresh linen.
“Seriously though, you need anything—early breakfast, space to meet vendors, a discreet exit? You come to me. We keep things buttoned-up around here, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how to flex when it counts. ”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trailing her as we passed a cozy library nook and a sunroom with lemon water on a silver tray.
She glanced back. “I’m guessing it’s been … a day?”
I exhaled. “More like a battlefield. I just had the seventh Dane brother try to rewrite my contract mid-project.”
“Silas?”
“Of course.”
Sasha let out a low whistle. “Tall, dark, and growly? That one?”
“The very one.”
“Damn,” she said with mock regret. “I was hoping he was the nice one.”
I raised a brow. “You know them?”
She shrugged. “Not like that. Just … met them. Once or twice. Went to a fish fry at the family’s old house on Sullivan’s Island when Izzy and Ryker got engaged.
Most of my interactions with them have been purely professional.
But if you’re asking whether I’ve imagined waking up tangled in those arms? Girl, yes.”
I laughed again.
“Izzy might kill me if I actually touched one,” she added quickly. “But still. A girl can fantasize.”
“There’s only one left,” I said dryly.
She grinned. “Then you better lock that down. For national security.”
I forced a laugh, but heat bloomed behind my sternum.
I’d already had him.
Fast. Dirty. Mind-shattering.
And God, I was still reeling.
The way his hands had locked around my hips. The way his body moved—like a weapon, like worship. The delicious stretch, the growl in his throat when I clenched around him, the way I came so hard I saw stars behind my eyes.
It hadn’t been sweet. It hadn’t even been smart.
But it had been unforgettable.
Did he still want me gone?
Like it hadn’t happened? Like I hadn’t left him breathless and wrecked with his pants barely zipped?
He could pretend all he wanted, but I’d felt it—the shift in his body, the second he lost control. The man didn’t commit? Fine. But he’d committed to every inch of my body in that workshop, and I wasn’t going to let him rewrite the story like I was some nameless itch he’d scratched in passing.
We paused in front of a set of double doors that led to a formal parlor—mahogany accents, gas fireplace, high-backed chairs arranged around a chess table.
“Your guests will love this for pre-ceremony cocktails,” she said, back in work mode. “We can do passed hors d'oeuvres here, or move everything out to the side veranda if the weather holds.”
I nodded, scanning the room. “What about the courtyard? How late can events run?”
“Eleven, officially. But we can extend with notice. The neighbors love us—we throw enough charity events to keep them in canapés and jazz quartets for life.”
I made a note. The space would work. Maybe for a welcome event. Small, tight guest list. Something candlelit and curated to contrast the grandeur of Dominion Hall.
But my stomach twisted as the memory of earlier flooded back.
Silas. The way he’d cornered me on the dock. The way he’d looked at me like I was something dangerous just for wanting credit for my work. Like my ambition was a threat.
I didn’t belong to him. To any of them. This job was my shot. My legacy.
And I wasn’t giving it up.
Not for Silas Dane.
Not for anyone.
Sasha must’ve sensed the tension rolling off me because she paused halfway across the room and tilted her head.
“You okay?” she asked softly. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one we all get after a guest screams at us because their champagne isn’t cold enough. Or because we forgot the gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free chocolate ganache with the hand-harvested Himalayan sea salt.” Her eyes sparkled. “So. What’s eating you?”
I cracked the faintest smile. “Okay, to be fair, that guest had a point. I mean, food allergies are serious, and we should all care where our cacao comes from. But still.” I shook my head. “No one deserves to be screamed at. Especially not the people trying to keep the wheels from falling off.”
I hesitated.
Then sighed and let the clipboard drop to my side. “You ever work your ass off to be taken seriously, just to have a man come along and act like you’re in his way?”
Sasha snorted. “Is that rhetorical, or should I start alphabetizing the list of times?”
That made me smile.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” I said quietly. “I built my business from scratch in Atlanta. No family money, no connections. Just grit and cold emails and favors I couldn’t afford to owe.”
Sasha’s face softened, the friendliness in her expression shaded now with something more grounded. “Where you from?”
“Outside Little Rock,” I admitted. “Nowhere fancy. Not the pretty part people put in postcards. Grew up watching my mom work doubles in a diner just to keep the lights on. I used to dream about hotels like this. I used to steal napkins from catering gigs and practice folding them like I’d seen in bridal magazines. ”
She let out a low whistle. “Damn, Portia. You really did the climb.”
“I did. And I’m not about to be dismissed like some amateur who wandered in.
” I looked around the room, the soft light catching on polished wood and delicate trim.
“This job? It’s everything. If I get this right, I don’t just keep my client list—I grow it.
Charleston, New York, international clients.
I could double my rates, maybe even finally open a second office. ”
Sasha nodded, then leaned against the doorframe like she had nowhere else to be.
“Well,” she said, “as someone who also lives her life pleasing the wealthy and impossible, let me just say—I see you. And that’s not nothing.”
I felt the tightness in my chest ease a little.
“Besides,” she added with a smirk, “those Dane men? They weren’t born with the silver spoons either. Word is, they didn’t even touch their father’s money until a few years ago. Some kind of inheritance delay.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. They came back from all that covert ops stuff and found out their dad left them more money than God. But it’s like—only a few of them knew what to do with it.
I think Ryker and Marcus got the hang of it fast. Atlas just sort of hides.
Elias? Still treats money like a glitch in the Matrix. And Silas …”
She trailed off, then gave me a sly look. “Well. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘billionaire chic.’”
“No,” I muttered. “He screams something else entirely.”
Sasha raised a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”
I hesitated.
Then, because the words were already burning the back of my throat, I said it.
“We … well …”
Her eyes went wide. Then she slapped a hand over her mouth and squealed behind it. “Shut the entire hell up. You fucked Silas Dane?”
“I’m not proud of it,” I said quickly. “It was impulsive. A mistake.”
“Was it, though?”
I gave her a look.
She grinned. “Come on. The brooding one? The one with the murdery eyes? That man looks like sin in a tactical vest.”
“Oh, it was sin all right.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “And he’s trying to push me out of the job. Like I’m not qualified.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
“Exactly.”
Sasha stepped closer, voice warm but firm. “You’re here because you earned it. Not because you’re convenient. Not because you’re expendable. And if he doesn’t know that, that’s his problem.”
I exhaled slowly. “Thanks, Sasha.”
“Anytime.” She smiled again. “Now come on. I haven’t shown you the garden terrace yet. It’s where the rich people go to pretend they’re low maintenance while demanding elderflower syrup flown in from Belgium.”
I laughed and followed her toward the French doors, already feeling a little lighter.
Silas Dane might have wanted to erase me.
But I wasn’t disappearing.
Not from this wedding.
Not from this city.
Not from him.