Chapter 24
SOPHIE
Iwoke up to sunlight and soft sheets and the kind of quiet that felt too big for the room.
For a second, my body stayed exactly where it was—heavy, warm, pleasantly sore in that slow, dreamy way that made me want to stretch and burrow and pretend the world could never reach me in here.
My cheek was pressed into the pillow, my hair a mess, one leg tangled in the sheet like I’d been fighting it in my sleep.
I reached behind me without opening my eyes.
Empty.
The space beside me was cool, not just unoccupied—gone long enough to lose his heat. Not the quick “bathroom” absence. Not “grab coffee.”
My eyes snapped open.
The bed was rumpled. The room was still gorgeous—cream-and-gold, the harbor glittering beyond the curtains like something staged for a movie. Jazz had gone quiet. Candles had burned down to wax puddles on the dresser. My emerald dress was draped over a chair like evidence.
His shirt was gone. His boots were gone.
Wyatt was gone.
My chest tightened once, sharp and instinctive.
And then, almost immediately, something steadier rose up and met it.
Breathe.
I sat up slowly, letting the sheet fall to my lap, and took inventory like I was grounding myself in facts instead of spiraling into fear.
We had dinner.
We had said I love you.
He had said it back.
He had held me like he meant it.
He had promised things—maybe recklessly—but not cruelly.
He’d looked at me like he’d been starving and finally found food.
Wyatt didn’t feel like the kind of man who would vanish because he regretted me.
He felt like the kind of man who would vanish because he was terrified of wanting me this much.
That was an important difference.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, the sheet slipping away.
Cool air kissed my skin. I walked barefoot across the plush carpet, passing the sitting area where two half-empty glasses still sat on the coffee table.
The curtains had been left slightly open, and the morning light made everything look softer, like the room was forgiving us for what we’d done in it.
I padded into the living area and found his wallet-sized pile of things missing from the side table—keys, phone, whatever else he’d emptied out last night. The bathroom door was open. The shower was dry. No towel thrown over the rack. No toothpaste on the sink.
Okay.
I walked back into the bedroom and my eyes landed on the small velvet box on the dresser.
My breath caught as if my body had been waiting for that clue.
I crossed the room and opened it.
Empty.
The belt buckle was gone.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until it rushed out of me, shaky and relieved.
Because I’d given him something that wasn’t just metal and etching.
I’d given him a piece of him. And if he’d taken it with him—if he’d thought to take it at all—that meant he hadn’t walked out like last night was a mistake.
He’d walked out because he was Wyatt.
Because he processed things with movement and distance and quiet.
Because emotion hit him like artillery and he’d been trained to take cover, not let himself stand in the open and get obliterated.
Because sometimes the safest place for him had always been alone.
I pressed my fingers to the empty velvet lining and let myself feel the smallest, strangest bloom of pride.
He took it.
He wanted it.
He kept it.
I closed the box and set it down carefully, as if I was handling a fragile truth.
Then I went back to the bed, sat on the edge, and tried to hear my own thoughts without amplifying the ones that wanted to scream.
A younger version of me would’ve spiraled. She would’ve read his absence like a verdict. She would’ve convinced herself she’d been too much, too fast, too hungry.
But I wasn’t her anymore.
I’d walked across the Ravenel Bridge with my throat full of panic and survived it.
I’d looked at my own grief—Jonesy’s absence, my mother’s erasures—and held it without drowning.
I’d gone to dinner with a man who could break me and told him the truth, anyway.
I didn’t lose my worth because a man needed space to catch up to his own feelings.
If anything, it made me like him more—not the leaving, but the fact that he felt it that intensely. Because last night had been real. It hadn’t been neat or easy or polite. It had been messy in the way real things are messy.
He needed a minute.
So, I gave him one.
I showered slowly, letting the warm water rinse away the haze, washing off the perfume and the candle smoke and the lingering sweetness of the night. I took my time moisturizing, brushing out my hair, putting on clothes that felt like me again—soft linen shorts, a tank top, sandals.
When I caught my reflection in the mirror, my eyes snagged on the side of my neck.
A mark.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just a bruise blooming beneath the skin like a secret.
I touched it gently, my pulse skipping.
My first instinct was to smile.
My second was to roll my eyes at myself because it was ridiculous to be so pleased about something that would’ve embarrassed me at twenty.
But I wasn’t twenty.
And I was done being embarrassed about wanting.
I covered it with a swipe of concealer out of habit, anyway—less because I was ashamed and more because I wasn’t in the mood to explain my private life to strangers in hotel elevators.
Then, I picked up my phone.
Two missed calls from Natalie. The mayor. One voicemail. A text.
Natalie: Hey, Sophie. Checking in. We can reschedule if you want. No pressure. Call me when you can.
I stared at it for a second.
A few days ago, just seeing her name would’ve made my stomach clench. Like I was about to be measured and found wanting. Like a panic attack had somehow become my entire personality.
But this morning, my body felt … steadier. Not because life had suddenly become safe, but because I’d walked straight into the parts of me I used to avoid and I hadn’t died there.
I pressed Call.
She answered on the second ring, bright and careful. “Sophie?”
“Hey,” I said, leaning my hip against the window and watching the harbor sparkle. “I’m calling you back.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I said honestly. “A lot better. And … I want to try again.”
There was a pause, then a soft exhale like she’d been holding her breath. “Okay. Okay, yes. We can absolutely do that. Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m sorry I bailed,” I added, because I meant it. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I know you weren’t. And for what it’s worth, you handled it like a human. Not a robot. That’s allowed.”
A laugh slipped out of me—small, real. “Good. Because I’m not great at being a robot.”
“So.” I could hear her smile through the phone. “We can keep the harbor background, but we don’t have to do it from anywhere high. We have options. Aquarium Wharf, for one. Waterfront Park. Even down by the pier where it’s flat and open. You’ll still get that Charleston vibe without … you know.”
“Without the bridge,” I finished.
“Right.”
I watched a boat cut across the water, white wake trailing behind it like ribbon. “Aquarium Wharf sounds perfect.”
“Great. We can do that.”
“And,” I added, surprising myself with how calmly it came out, “I still want to tackle the bridge.”
Natalie went quiet, like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard me right.
“I do,” I said again, firmer. “Just … not for the interview. Not publicly. Not with cameras. I want to do it in private.”
There was something almost reverent in her voice when she said, “I love that.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Me, too.”
We set a time for that afternoon. She promised to send details. I hung up feeling … not fixed, exactly, but strengthened. Like a muscle had been torn and repaired thicker.
Like I’d proven something to myself and couldn’t un-know it now.
The rest of the morning felt oddly simple after that.
I checked out of the Belmond without drama, thanked the staff with the calm competence of a woman who belonged in nice places, and climbed into a cab with my sunglasses on and my hair still damp at the ends.
On the drive back, I let myself look at Charleston the way I had when I first arrived—beauty everywhere, history in the bricks, sunlight on wrought-iron balconies. But the city felt different now. Less like a backdrop. More like a witness.
Wyatt hadn’t texted.
And I didn’t make that mean anything.
Because here was what I knew: If a man had told me he loved me while buried in the truth of himself, if he’d taken my gift with him like a talisman, if he’d held me all night like he was afraid of the world taking me away—
Then he’d come back.
Maybe not in a neat way. Maybe not on my timeline.
But he would.
And if he didn’t?
Then that wouldn’t be about my worth. It would be about his capacity.
I refused to shrink myself into panic.
When I walked into The Palmetto Rose lobby, Beth and Natasha were already there—Beth in a sundress that looked like she’d bought it solely to be dramatic, Natasha in neat jeans and a blouse, composed as ever.
They both looked up at the same time.
Natasha’s eyes went immediately to my face. Then my posture. Then my hands.
Beth’s eyes went straight to my neck like she had a sixth sense for sin.
“Oh,” Beth said, drawing the word out like she was tasting it. “Hello.”
I slowed, already laughing. “Don’t.”
Natasha stood, her expression carefully neutral in the way that meant she was about to say something devastating. “Good morning.”
Beth took three steps closer, squinting like a detective. “Is that—”
“It’s concealer,” I cut in quickly.
Beth’s grin widened. “So, yes.”
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “It appears someone had a productive evening.”
“Can we not do this in the lobby?” I said, but it came out amused, not defensive.
Beth looped her arm through mine. “Oh, we can. We absolutely can. But fine. Upstairs. For your dignity.”