Chapter 13
PORTIA
T he next day, Verandelle shimmered in the late morning light, all French country charm and Charleston indulgence.
Ivy spilled over sun-warmed brick walls, and lavender bloomed in terra cotta pots like something from a Provencal postcard. A pale stone fountain bubbled in the background, soft and steady, while the breeze teased the Spanish moss hanging from the arched trellises.
If yesterday had been lust and linen sheets, today was rosé and reputation.
I smoothed my dress as I stepped through the archway, heels clicking softly on the old brick floor.
Today’s dress was strategic—sweet enough to charm, modest enough to forget.
Fitted at the waist, with flutter sleeves and a skirt that moved when I walked.
The neckline dipped just enough to draw the eye, not enough to invite commentary.
A subtle floral print in ivory and rose traced the hem, delicate and feminine. I’d even worn panties.
It was a line in the sand. A silent recalibration after yesterday’s chaos. No more invitations. This morning, I wasn’t dressing for Silas. I was dressing for control.
I wasn’t responsible for this engagement party—that honor went to a local socialite with a Rolodex older than most of the guests—but I was still on display. I always was. No matter the day, no matter the task, I carried the weight of perfection like a tailored coat.
Straight spine. Sharp eye. Cool voice.
Never mind that I’d spent yesterday in a guest suite at Dominion Hall, thoroughly wrecked by a man who still hadn’t texted me.
Silas.
Just thinking his name made something coil in my stomach.
We’d stayed in that room for hours. Long enough for the afternoon sun to shift across the balcony.
Long enough for me to forget what time it was—what job I was supposed to be doing.
I’d left Monte to manage the rest of the security planning on his own, a first in the history of my career.
I hadn’t even made it back to the hotel until evening.
I’d ordered a chopped salad from room service and eaten it in a bathrobe, too tired—and too raw—to do anything else.
Now it was a new day. A fresh outfit. A sharper face in the mirror.
And I was back on the clock.
The Verandelle courtyard unfolded in layers of pale color and controlled luxury.
Blush florals twined around wrought-iron railings.
Waiters in crisp white served blood orange mimosas and mini crab cakes.
The playlist was a mix of soft jazz and understated strings—something curated to imply good taste without ever drawing attention.
Monte and Bea were already here, both dressed with quiet authority.
Monte looked like security detail in a tailored sport coat, dark sunglasses shielding eyes that missed nothing.
Bea, in contrast, wore a flowing powder-blue wrap dress with pointed flats and a digital clipboard tucked under her arm like a sidearm.
She’d flown in from Atlanta yesterday and texted me first thing this morning: I’m here. Where’s the fire?
“There you are,” she said now, stepping in beside me as I scanned the courtyard.
“I was starting to think you got kidnapped by a mimosa bar.”
“Tempting,” I murmured, adjusting the clasp on my clutch. “But no. Just ... needed a minute to reset.”
She looked at me. Really looked. “You good?”
I hesitated. Then nodded. “I will be. Today’s just about showing up.”
Bea didn’t push. She never did. She just handed me a tablet with the latest updates and a list of names. “Your new best friend is a blonde named Pia Paige. Isabel’s friend. She already asked me twice if we’re doing drone coverage for the wedding.”
“Great.”
“She also asked if the grooms would be wearing swords. Like, actual weapons.”
I blinked. “Please tell me you said no.”
“I told her only if she’s first in line to duel.”
I took the tablet, scrolling through names and notes as Bea wandered off to intercept a champagne spill. Just ahead, Isabel stood chatting with Sasha, who looked luminous in a pink dress with gold bangles at both wrists. They spotted me and waved.
“Portia!” Sasha beamed. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“You, too. You clean up almost too well for daylight.”
She laughed. “Don’t tell the after-dark crowd. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Isabel leaned in. “This place is dreamy, isn’t it? Ryker always says Verandelle reminds him of old money, but I think it just reminds him of croissants.”
I smiled. “You’re not wrong.”
The brunch was in full swing now. Will Harper, Ryker’s best friend and Isabel’s brother, stood near the fountain with two of the Dominion Hall guys, laughing over something that looked suspiciously like wedding-themed poker cards.
Pia had gathered a small crowd by the lavender pots, demonstrating some sort of champagne-saber technique she definitely wasn’t qualified to perform.
And Anna’s parents, Alexey and Irina, sat at a corner table dressed like a diplomatic envoy, watching the festivities with polite detachment.
Near the main table, Hallie Mae’s mother, Leanne Calhoun, dabbed her eyes with a cloth napkin while talking quietly to Vivienne. I made my way toward her, slower than usual, my chest tightening. Monte caught my eye from across the courtyard and gave me a small nod.
“Portia,” Leanne said when she saw me. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I didn’t organize today, but I’m glad it’s going well.”
“It’s just …” she pressed the napkin again, voice cracking, “I keep thinking about him. He would’ve loved this. All the flowers. The old-world charm.”
“Your husband?” I asked softly.
She nodded. “He was supposed to walk her down the aisle.”
I felt my throat close. “I’m so sorry.”
“She’s strong, our Hallie Mae. She gets that from him.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “And from you.”
She smiled through her tears. “You’re kind. I just want to make it through the day without embarrassing myself.”
“You’re allowed to cry,” I said. “This is what love looks like, too.”
The rest of the brunch flowed with gentle energy—laughing toasts, clinking glassware, spontaneous piano renditions.
Monte checked in with the Danes’ security detail, Bea subtly managed a snafu with a delivery truck, and I floated through the event like a wraith in designer heels, smiling, nodding, absorbing.
But the truth was, I didn’t feel like myself.
Because no matter how many charming guests I greeted or champagne flutes I raised, a part of me was still back in that guest suite. On that bed. Wrapped in arms I shouldn’t crave.
Silas.
I hadn’t seen him since yesterday. No texts. No smirking glances. And I had no idea what we were now.
What it meant.
Maybe it had meant nothing to him. Maybe it had meant too much to me.
I closed my eyes for a second, breathing in the lavender, the laughter, the moment.
I was here to plan six weddings, not fall apart under the weight of stolen kisses.
Keep it together , I told myself.
Then, I saw him.
Silas stood near the back of the courtyard, beside a tall wrought-iron trellis twined with jasmine and roses. He wasn’t alone.
The woman he was talking to was laughing—head tilted back, hand on her hip, mouth painted in something glossy and coral.
She was shorter than me by a good half-foot, all soft curves and sun-glow.
Light skin, big breasts practically spilling out of her floral dress, thick thighs hugged by ruffled fabric that didn’t even try to pretend at subtlety.
Her voice floated over to me, syrupy and warm, and whatever she was saying made Silas’s mouth twitch into a half-smile.
The kind of smile I hadn’t seen since yesterday.
I stiffened.
She wasn’t just pretty. She was the kind of woman men wrote songs about. Full and plush and wide open. The opposite of me in every way.
Where I was tall and willowy—an aesthetic that lived somewhere between Vogue editorial and vaguely intimidating—she was softness and sunshine, the kind of woman you’d want to see in your kitchen at sunrise wearing nothing but one of your old shirts and a smile.
And he was looking at her.
Not touching. Not flirting, exactly. But engaged. Interested.
My stomach tightened.
It was ridiculous. I had no claim. We hadn’t made promises. I’d dragged him into that room and let things spiral because I’d needed an outlet, not a future.
So why the hell did I feel like I’d just been slapped?
Why did my skin itch under my carefully chosen dress, my mouth suddenly dry, my chest hot with something dangerously close to hurt?
Jealousy was beneath me. I didn’t do insecure. I didn’t compare myself to other women. I was in control. Always.
But still … I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop wondering what she was saying that made his head tip like that. What she’d said to make his eyes soften.
What if she was his type?
What if everything I wasn’t—was exactly what he wanted?
I could no sooner become short, light-skinned, and blessed with big, pillowy breasts than I could become a fire-breathing cello prodigy who summers in Monaco and drinks warm milk before bed. It just wasn’t me. It would never be me.
I was long lines and hard angles. High cheekbones, sharp tongue. Skin the color of burnt honey, hair usually in a sleek twist because curls invited too many hands. I was built for stilettos, not softness. Designed for power, not surrender.
So if he wanted someone soft and sweet and made for spooning? I couldn’t give him that. Not even if I tried.
And if I wasn’t his type—if our time together had been nothing more than a curiosity, moments of heat that passed as quickly as they flared—then what?
What did that make me?
“You’re doing it again.”
Monte’s voice came from just over my shoulder. Warm. Low. Impossible to ignore.
I turned toward him. “Doing what?”
“That thing where your jaw tightens and your eyes narrow and you pretend you’re studying architecture when really you’re burning holes into someone’s soul.”
I huffed, trying for lightness. “I’m fine.”
He tilted his head. “You’re not. But okay.”
I looked away. “She’s not even that?—”
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to compete.”
Something in his tone made me stop. I looked at him fully, really looked, and for a second—just a second—I saw something in his eyes I wasn’t ready to name.
Monte had always been steady. Loyal. The calm beneath my chaos.
But right now, that steadiness carried weight. Something unspoken. Something fragile.
“You okay?” I asked.
He smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always. You’re the one wobbling.”
“I’m not wobbling.”
“You are,” he said. “And for what it’s worth—he’d be a damn fool not to want you.”
My breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the tremor I’d tried so hard to bury.
“Really?” I said, trying to keep my voice light, but it wobbled anyway. “I’m not exactly everyone’s cup of tea.”
Monte’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. You’re not. You’re champagne at midnight. You’re neat whiskey in a room full of sweet tea. Some men can’t handle that.”
I let out a brittle laugh. “And some don’t want to try.”
“They’re not worth the burn,” he said quietly. “But the ones who do?” His voice softened, dropped into something intimate. “They won’t just want you. They’ll crave you.”
I looked down, fingers tightening on my clutch. “I’m not built for easy. Or soft.”
“No,” he said. “You’re built for something stronger. Something real. And anyone who’s not man enough to meet you where you are? Doesn’t get to touch you.”
The words landed heavy. And warm. And dangerous.
Because they made me feel seen.
I looked back toward Silas.
The other woman was gone. Just a blur of peach floral and big hair disappearing into the crowd.
He was alone now, but he wasn’t looking at me.
Maybe that was the hardest part.
Because no matter how fierce I pretended to be, no matter how many veils I knew how to lift and ceremonies I knew how to orchestrate—I didn’t know what to do with a man who saw through me.
And still hadn’t come back.