Chapter 18
SILAS
T he days blurred into a haze of champagne and skin, a fever dream I didn’t want to wake from. After that night at The Palmetto Rose, when Portia pulled me into her suite and told me to stay, something shifted.
The weddings consumed Charleston—six brides, six grooms, a festival of love and excess that spun like a carousel. Cocktail parties on rooftops, receptions on private islands, dinners under chandeliers that cost more than most houses.
And through it all, Portia and I were a secret, a pulse beneath the surface, stealing every glance, every touch, every chance to burn each other alive.
I was happy, a feeling so foreign it scared me, but I didn’t want it to end. I couldn’t believe it—Silas Dane, The Ghost, grinning like a fool, addicted to her fire, her scent, her everything.
The parties were obscene, the kind only billionaires could pull off.
Last week, we’d boarded Ryker’s yacht, a floating palace docked off the Bahamas. Crystal flutes had overflowed with Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, caviar had gleamed on silver spoons, and a string quartet had played Vivaldi while dolphins danced in the wake.
Portia had moved through the crowd in a sapphire gown that hugged her curves, her skin glowing under the stars. I’d caught her eye across the deck, her smile a silent promise, and later, we’d slipped below, finding a storage cabin piled with sails.
I’d peeled her dress off, her moans muffled by the ocean’s roar, her nails raking my back as I’d fucked her against the hull, the yacht rocking with our rhythm.
It had been quick, desperate, her legs around my waist, my lips on her throat, both of us knowing we had minutes before someone noticed us gone.
Two nights later, Marcus had chartered a Gulfstream to Paris for a “casual” engagement dinner. The jet’s cabin had been all leather and gold, Dom Pérignon chilling in crystal buckets.
We’d landed at Le Bourget, had whisked to a private room at Le Meurice, where truffles shaved over risotto and Chateau Pétrus had flowed like water. Portia had worn emerald silk, her curls pinned high, and every time her eyes met mine, my cock had twitched.
After dessert, we’d snuck to a balcony overlooking the Tuileries, the city glittering below.
I’d backed her against the railing, her dress hiked up, her panties shoved aside, and had taken her slow, deep, her gasps swallowed by the Parisian night.
Her hands had clutched my shoulders, her body trembling as she came, and I’d followed, whispering her name like a prayer.
Back in Charleston, the parties hadn’t stopped. A gala at the Gibbes Museum, where art collectors had bid millions on Basquiats while Portia and I had fucked in a coatroom, her dress bunched at her waist, my hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.
A rooftop soiree at The Dewberry, where jazz had drifted over the harbor and we’d slipped into a service elevator, her lips on my cock, my hands in her hair, the thrill of almost getting caught pushing us over the edge.
Every event, every stolen moment, had fed my addiction. I hadn’t known this feeling—happiness, lightness, like the world wasn’t a war zone. I didn’t trust it, but I craved it, craved her, and I’d burn everything to keep it.
Today’s gathering was at Magnolia Plantation, a sprawling estate outside Charleston that oozed old money and new decadence.
The main house was a white-columned beast, its verandas draped in wisteria, its lawns manicured to perfection.
Torches lined the paths, casting flickering gold over oyster-shell walkways.
A marquee tent glowed on the riverbank, its silk walls billowing, crystal chandeliers sparkling inside.
Guests sipped Pappy Van Winkle from cut-glass tumblers, their laughter mingling with a live band’s soulful croon.
Waiters in white gloves passed lobster tartlets and foie gras crostini, while a champagne tower bubbled under a canopy of live oaks strung with fairy lights.
It was billionaire excess, a world I’d never felt part of—until now.
I mingled, surprising myself. I joked with Noah about his tux, too tight from his renewed gym obsession, and laughed with Isabel when she spilled champagne on Ryker’s cufflinks.
Hallie Mae caught me by the bar, her smile warm, her eyes seeing me—not The Ghost, but Silas—and I felt a pang of gratitude.
I clapped Marcus on the back, his grin sharp as he recounted a poker game where he’d fleeced a hedge fund bro.
For once, I wasn’t on the edges, wasn’t scanning for threats. I was in it, part of the crowd, and it felt good, like I belonged.
Portia was the reason, her presence a tether, her glances across the tent a spark that kept me burning.
She moved like a queen, her dress a deep burgundy that clung to her curves, the neckline plunging just enough to make my mouth water. Her curls were swept up, a few strands teasing her neck, and every time our eyes met, the world narrowed to her—her smile, her fire, her promise of later.
We’d agreed to keep it quiet, to protect her career, but it didn’t stop the heat.
During a toast, her hand brushed mine, her fingers lingering, and I felt it in my bones, a jolt that made me want to drag her into the shadows.
Later, by the dessert table, she leaned close, whispering about a vendor mix-up, her breath hot on my ear, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from kissing her then and there.
As the evening wound down, the crowd thinned, guests drifting to their Bentleys and helicopters. I stood by a quiet corner of the garden, the river’s hum soft, the torches casting long shadows.
Portia found me, her dress shimmering in the firelight, her eyes bright with mischief.
“You clean up nice, Dane,” she said, her voice low, teasing.
I smirked, stepping closer, the air crackling between us.
“You’re not so bad yourself. That dress is a fucking crime.”
She laughed, soft and warm, her hand grazing my arm.
“Later,” she murmured, her eyes promising fire. “My suite. Midnight. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, my voice rough, already picturing her naked, her legs spread, her moans filling the dark. We stood there, the party’s hum distant, planning our escape, our secret. I was happy—fuck, I was happy—and I didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t want it to end.
Then her eyes flicked down, her brow furrowing. “What’s that hanging out of your pocket?”
I grinned, thinking she was messing with me, her hand reaching for my pants. My cock twitched, expecting her fingers to tease, to stroke, but she pulled out something else—a red ribbon, thin and silky, with a metal tassel glinting in the torchlight.
She held it up, her smile fading to wonder. “What is this, Silas?”
I froze, my grin dying. I didn’t know. My hand went to my pocket, empty, and my gut twisted.
“Probably a prank,” I said, forcing a laugh, my mind racing. “My brothers pull this shit all the time. Ninja skills, they call it. Marcus or Charlie, betting on it.”
She didn’t laugh, her eyes on the tassel, her fingers turning it over.
“There’s something etched here,” she said, her voice quiet, like this was a game. She squinted, reading, and her face paled. “It says, ‘My Silas. Soon.’”
The world stopped. My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath gone.
My Silas .
My mother’s words, her ghost, burned into that phone, now here, in Portia’s hand.
I stared at the ribbon, red as blood, the metal cold and accusing.
Portia’s eyes met mine, wide with fear, and before my brain could unwind, she dropped it, the tassel hitting the grass with a soft thud. She turned, her dress swirling, and disappeared into the crowd, her steps fast, like she was running from me, from this.
I stood there, rooted, my chest hollow, my mind a mess. The ribbon lay at my feet, a snake in the grass, and I didn’t touch it, didn’t dare.
My Silas. Soon .
Was it her? My mother, alive, taunting me? Or Department 77, playing their game, slipping this into my pocket to fuck with my head?
My brothers’ pranks were crude—fake spiders, whoopee cushions, not this. This was personal, a blade aimed at my heart.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes sharp, searching for a face, a shadow, anything.
Nothing. Just laughter, champagne, the oblivious rich.
Portia was gone, swallowed by the party, and I felt her absence like a wound. I’d been happy, fool enough to think I could keep it, but now it was slipping, my world tilting back to war.
I wanted to chase her, to explain, but what could I say? That my mother’s ghost was hunting me? That 77 was closing in, and I’d brought her into their sights?
I was no good for her, never had been, but I’d let myself believe it, let her fire burn away my shadows. Now they were back, darker, colder, and I was losing her.
I bent down, my hand shaking, and picked up the ribbon. The metal was heavy, the etching clear— My Silas. Soon .
I clenched it, my knuckles white, my rage a quiet storm. I’d find who did this. I’d end them.
But first, I had to find Portia, had to make her see I wasn’t the danger, even if I didn’t believe it myself.
I shoved the ribbon in my pocket, my fancy shoes heavy on the grass, and headed into the crowd, my happiness gone, my war back, and her name the only thing keeping me from breaking.