Chapter 15
SOPHIE
The morning after Dusty’s unfolded gently, like Charleston knew better than to rush anyone who’d stayed up too late dancing.
We walked the harbor just after breakfast, the three of us moving at an easy, unspoken pace—Beth with sunglasses perched on her head, Natasha carrying iced coffee like a lifeline, me breathing in salt air and letting my thoughts drift where they wanted.
Boats cut through the water in slow lines.
The sun glinted off masts and windows and the pale sweep of the Ravenel Bridge in the distance, its cables rising clean and white against the sky.
“Every time I come here,” Beth said, stretching her arms overhead, “I feel like my nervous system resets.”
“You came here once before,” Natasha reminded her.
“That was enough,” Beth replied.
We laughed. It felt good—light, unforced. The kind of laughter that came from being well-fed and well-rested and not needing to be anything for anyone.
By late morning, we were back at The Palmetto Rose, shoes kicked off, bodies arranged around the pool in a loose constellation of towels and loungers.
Lunch appeared—club sandwiches cut neatly in halves, salads bright with citrus, fries that disappeared faster than any of us wanted to admit.
The pool shimmered. The air hummed with cicadas and quiet conversation. Charleston did downtime well.
“So,” Beth said around a bite of sandwich, “any updates from your fan club?”
I groaned. “Please, don’t call it that.”
Natasha smirked. “Too late. You’re Charleston Harbor Hero now.”
“I told you to stop,” I said, but I was smiling.
My phone buzzed again, face down on the table. I didn’t look at it. Not yet. I wanted to stay here for another minute—in this pocket of calm, with my friends, with the city breathing around us like a lullaby.
Eventually, reality nudged.
The mayor’s office was expecting me early afternoon.
I showered, dressed, and tried not to overthink it as I smoothed my skirt and checked my reflection one last time. I didn’t look like a hero. I looked like a woman trying to remember how to breathe normally while doing something wildly outside her comfort zone.
“Text us if you need backup,” Natasha said as I walked out.
Beth nodded. “Or if you accidentally get adopted by Charleston.”
“I’m not getting adopted,” I said, though part of me wondered if the city had already started the paperwork.
The mayor’s office was everything you’d expect—historic building, polished floors, soft echo of footsteps, light streaming in through tall windows that made even the waiting area feel dignified. I checked in, sat down, and tried not to fidget.
When Natalie Kennedy stepped out to greet me, I understood immediately why people gravitated toward her.
She was stunning in a way that didn’t feel calculated—blonde hair cut just short enough to look intentional, eyes sharp and warm at the same time, posture relaxed but commanding. She looked like someone who could walk into a room and change the temperature without raising her voice.
“Sophie,” she said, smiling as she extended her hand. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Thank you for having me,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t betray how surreal this felt.
Her office was bright and airy, framed photos and awards balanced with personal touches—books stacked neatly, a vase of fresh flowers on a side table, sunlight spilling across a desk that looked used, not staged.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to a chair. “Sit. And let me just say—what you did on that boat matters.”
I swallowed. “I just … reacted.”
“That’s usually how courage shows up,” she said easily. “Uninvited. Inconvenient. Necessary.”
She thanked me—not with grand flourishes, but with sincerity that made my chest ache in a good way. She talked about Charleston. About community. About how moments like that reminded people they weren’t as disconnected as they sometimes felt.
“I also owe you a small apology,” she added, smiling. “The nameplate outside still says Natalie Kennedy. I was married recently, and apparently bureaucracy moves slower than romance.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She laughed softly. “I’m Natalie Dane now. It’ll be updated eventually.”
The word registered—Dane—just long enough for my brain to blink.
“That’s funny,” I said lightly. “I know someone with that last name.”
She tilted her head. “It’s a good name.”
I smiled, the coincidence filing itself away somewhere in the back of my mind, too crowded with everything else to investigate just yet.
Natalie leaned back slightly. “Jax Moore from Channel 4 mentioned you were open to a brief on-camera interview.”
“I am,” I said, though my stomach fluttered.
“I had a thought,” she continued. “The pedestrian walkway on the Ravenel Bridge. The harbor behind you. It’s iconic, and it frames the story beautifully—Charleston, resilience, perspective, heroics on a dinner cruise.”
The bridge.
My pulse skipped.
“That sounds … great,” I said, forcing the words out evenly.
“Wonderful,” Natalie replied, already reaching for her phone. “If you’re comfortable, we can head over now.”
Comfortable was not the word I would’ve chosen. But I nodded, anyway.
We gathered outside—Natalie, me, and a media coordinator—when Beth and Natasha appeared, sunglasses on and coffee cups in hand, grinning like they’d pulled off an ambush. I blinked at them. I’d been sure they were still at the hotel, committed to pool chairs and downtime.
“Moral support,” Beth announced cheerfully.
Natasha nodded. “You didn’t actually think we were letting you do this alone, did you?”
The day was clear and bright, the bridge rising in a clean arc against the sky, its cables slicing upward against the blue like something purposeful instead of intimidating.
Beth leaned in. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied automatically.
Natasha studied my face. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, even as my pulse skittered uneasily under my skin.
I’d texted Wyatt earlier—kept it casual. Mayor wants to do a quick interview. Ravenel Bridge. I hadn’t thought much beyond that. Definitely hadn’t expected him to rearrange his day. I’d assumed he was working. Busy. Elsewhere.
So, when a familiar figure approached a few minutes later, my breath caught before I could stop it.
Wyatt.
He looked relaxed—jeans, boots, button-down sleeves rolled up—but the second his eyes found mine, that ease vanished. Concern flickered across his face immediately, sharp and instinctive.
Something warm bloomed in my chest.
He hadn’t said he was coming.
He’d just … shown up.
And the realization—that he’d read my text and decided to be here, no questions asked—hit me harder than I expected.
“You all right?” he asked quietly, stepping close enough that I could feel the solid reassurance of him beside me.
I nodded, even though my gaze stayed fixed somewhere safely below the bridge cables. “I will be.”
His eyes flicked up toward the span, then back to my face, understanding settling in without me having to say it out loud. “Heights,” he said gently. Not a question.
I let out a slow breath. “Yeah. It’s not logical. I know that.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “You don’t have to be brave about it, either.”
Something in my chest loosened at that. “I didn’t want to say no,” I admitted. “It felt important.”
He didn’t take my hand—not yet—but he stayed close, steady, like an anchor I could reach for whenever I needed.
Natalie smiled at us both. “You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Wyatt said smoothly, glancing at me. “Old friends.”
The word settled gently this time. Not as a boundary. As a truth with room to grow.
As we moved toward the bridge access, the height loomed—not threatening, exactly, but insistent. My palms dampened. My breath shortened.
Wyatt noticed instantly.
His hand brushed mine—not grabbing, just offering. I took it without thinking.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear.
“I want to,” I said. “I’m just scared.”
“I know,” he replied simply.
And somehow, that made it easier.
We reached the base of the walkway. The wind picked up slightly, carrying the sound of water and traffic and the steady heartbeat of the city.
Natalie turned to me. “Ready?”
I nodded, squaring my shoulders.
This city had already asked me to step forward once.
I could do it again.
The pedestrian walkway rose in a clean, graceful curve beside us, its cables fanning upward like something engineered to inspire awe instead of fear.
I focused on the details close to me—the textured concrete under my shoes, the faint metallic hum in the railings, the rhythm of traffic nearby.
If I didn’t look too far ahead, or too far down over the side, I could manage this.
Wyatt stayed close without crowding me. His hand never tightened around mine, never tugged. It was just there—warm, steady, optional. A presence, not a demand.
Beth and Natasha hovered a few steps back, chatting quietly with one of the aides, blissfully unaware of the internal calculus I was doing with every inhale.
Wyatt leaned slightly closer. “You want to tell me what your brain’s doing right now?” he asked softly.
I exhaled through my nose. “It’s trying to convince me that I’m standing on something unstable. Even though I know I’m not.”
“That checks out,” he said. “Your brain’s always been dramatic.”
I huffed a quiet laugh despite myself. “Says the man who jumped off a quarry cliff once because someone dared him.”
“Peer pressure is a powerful force,” he replied solemnly. “Trauma, however, is sneakier.”
The word didn’t sting when he said it. It just existed. Acknowledged.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he added. “Not to the mayor. Not to Charleston. Not to the internet.”
“I know,” I said. “I just don’t want fear to decide things for me.”
He studied me for a moment, eyes steady. “Then let’s let you decide. One step at a time.”
I nodded.