Chapter 26
SOPHIE
By the time I finished texting Wyatt, my body felt settled.
Not calm in the way people meant when they said calm like nothing could touch you.
More like anchored.
Like I’d driven a stake into the ground inside myself and decided—here. This is where I stand. This is what I want. This is who I am when things get messy.
Beth was in the bathroom brushing her teeth. Natasha sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone with that composed, observant quiet she carried. The room smelled faintly of sunscreen and hotel detergent and the ghost of last night’s adrenaline that still lived under my skin.
I didn’t tell them what I was about to do.
Not because I didn’t trust them. Because I didn’t want a debate. I didn’t want Beth’s drama or Natasha’s careful questions. I didn’t want their worry to accidentally make my decision feel fragile.
This wasn’t fragile.
This was me.
I slipped my phone into my back pocket, grabbed my tote bag, and said, “I’m going downstairs for a bit.”
Beth poked her head out of the bathroom. Foam on her mouth. Toothbrush in hand. “Downstairs like … brunch downstairs? Or downstairs like …you’re going to hunt him down and drag him back by the belt buckle?”
“I’m going to do something responsible,” I said.
Beth squinted suspiciously. “That’s not always your brand.”
“It might be my new brand,” I said, and before she could argue, I was out the door.
The elevator ride down felt like a choice.
Not a grand, cinematic one—no swelling music, no wind in my hair, no montage.
Just a woman standing in a mirrored box, watching her own reflection and deciding not to wait for life to give her permission.
The lobby of The Palmetto Rose was brighter in the morning, sun pouring through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air like glitter. The place had a genteel kind of charm—Charleston trying to look effortless while still showing off.
A couple of guests sat in the sitting area with coffee and newspapers, talking quietly. Somewhere near the breakfast nook, silverware clinked. The whole building felt like it ran on hush and routine.
I walked to the front desk.
The woman behind it looked up and smiled with the kind of warmth that didn’t feel forced.
She was tall—model tall—with wavy hair that hit her shoulders in dark, glossy curls.
Her skin was that beautiful, impossible in-between shade that made you want to stare because the genetics were clearly showing off.
Her name tag read: Sasha.
“Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”
I leaned my elbows on the counter like we were friends and I wasn’t secretly about to rearrange my entire life. “Hi. I have a weird question.”
Sasha’s smile widened. “Those are my favorite.”
“Is there … like … a business center here?” I asked. “Computers, printer, that kind of thing.”
“There is,” she said immediately, gesturing toward a hallway. “Down that way. Second door on the right. We keep it unlocked from seven to seven.”
“Perfect.” I hesitated, then added, “And another question.”
“Hit me.”
I lowered my voice a little, like job hunting was scandalous. “How’s the job market in Charleston?”
Sasha blinked once, then laughed softly. “That depends. Are you asking as a tourist who got charmed and thinks she might move here, or are you asking as someone who’s already halfway packed?”
The fact that she nailed me in one sentence made my mouth twitch. “Somewhere between.”
Sasha studied me with quick, sharp eyes—like she could read posture and tone and know what kind of day you’d had. Her gaze flicked up to my hair, then to the edge of my concealer at my jawline like she was cataloging details, and then back to my eyes.
“You’re in the right city for reinvention,” Sasha said. “But it is competitive. Hospitality is always hiring. Tourism stuff, too. Events, marketing, admin—those doors open fast. Medical is steady. Legal offices are always looking. Tech exists, but it’s … not Austin-tech.”
I nodded, absorbing it. “How did you know I was from Austin?”
Her mouth curved. “Your registration.”
I laughed softly. “I didn’t realize I’d been noticed.”
Sasha’s gaze flicked over me—quick, assessing, unapologetically honest. “You stand out,” she said simply. “Even in a crowd.”
Something warm and unexpected settled in my chest.
“What about creative or … community-focused work?” I asked. “I have a counseling background. I want something that actually helps people. But something a little different.”
Sasha’s brows lifted, recognition sparking. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I echoed.
“You’re the Charleston Harbor Hero,” she said, like it was obvious. “The dinner cruise. That was you, right?”
Heat rushed up my neck. “Yeah. That was me.”
She smiled—wide and genuine this time. “Then community work makes perfect sense. Nonprofits, outreach programs, city initiatives—Charleston runs on them. And people would recognize your name. You’d walk into those spaces with instant credibility.”
I let that land. Not ego—alignment.
“Charleston loves a woman who shows up,” Sasha added. “Especially one who doesn’t do it for attention.”
I exhaled, something inside me clicking into place. “That’s … actually exactly what I want. That’s helpful.”
“I’m helpful,” Sasha said, deadpan, then softened into a grin. “What else?”
I hesitated again because this part felt more intimate, more revealing than the job question.
“Does The Palmetto Rose do extended stays?” I asked. “Like … weekly. Monthly. That kind of thing.”
Sasha’s eyebrows lifted—not judgment, just interest. “We do. Limited availability, but yes. We have long-stay suites on the third floor. Kitchenette. Laundry access. If you want, I can have our owner, Isabel, email you rates.”
My heart steadied even more, like it approved of me thinking in steps instead of fantasies.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
Sasha’s smile turned knowing in a way that made me feel seen and not embarrassed about it. “Okay. Verify your email?”
I gave it to her, and she checked my records with quick efficiency.
“Now,” she said, looking up, “do you want my unsolicited life advice?”
I laughed. “I’d love it.”
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice the way women did when they were about to hand you something real. “Don’t move here for a man unless you’re sure.”
My breath caught, not because she’d hurt my feelings, but because she’d hit the nerve.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t bristle.
I just met her eyes.
“I’m not moving here for a man,” I said. And it was the truth. “I’m moving here for me. But … there is a man.”
Sasha’s gaze held mine for a beat longer, then she nodded like that answer mattered. Like it passed some internal test. “Okay. Good. That’s the only way it works.”
I exhaled, feeling something like gratitude toward a stranger who’d just given me permission to be smart while still being hopeful.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Anytime,” she replied. “Go make your plans.”
I walked down the hallway toward the business center with my tote bag bumping against my hip and the strange sensation that I was doing something both reckless and deeply sane.
The room was small but clean—two desktop computers, a printer, a little sign that politely asked guests not to print “large personal projects.”
I sat at one of the computers and stared at the blank screen for a second longer than necessary.
Okay.
This was the part where fear usually walked in and started rearranging things.
What if he doesn’t come back?
What if you look stupid?
What if you’re making decisions based on a night in a fancy hotel and hormones and nostalgia?
But my self-esteem didn’t live in hypotheticals anymore.
It lived in evidence.
Wyatt wouldn’t take the buckle if he wanted to erase last night.
Wyatt wouldn’t find Jonesy’s photo if he wanted to stay emotionally shallow.
Wyatt didn’t say I love you like that—rough and wrecked and honest—if he meant to treat me like a mistake.
Wyatt was unsteady because he was afraid.
Not because I was unlovable.
That distinction mattered.
It let me breathe. It let me stay in my body instead of scrambling for explanations that diminished me. Fear didn’t mean no. Fear meant something mattered enough to scare him.
And as I sat there, phone warm in my hand, another quiet truth settled in—one I hadn’t consciously named yet, but had been circling since the moment I arrived.
Charleston felt like a place I could make a home.
Not in the romantic, postcard way. Not because it was pretty or historic or charming, though it was all of those things. It felt right in a deeper, steadier way—like my nervous system had exhaled here. Like the city understood both beauty and gravity. Softness and steel.
There was a large military presence woven into the bones of the place—uniforms at coffee shops, quiet competence moving through public spaces, people who knew what it meant to live with structure and sacrifice without needing to announce it.
That mattered to me more than I’d expected.
It meant Wyatt wouldn’t be an anomaly here.
Wouldn’t have to translate himself constantly.
Wouldn’t be the only one carrying weight most people never saw.
And then there was Dominion Hall.
Whatever it actually was—whatever Wyatt had hinted at but hadn’t explained yet—it wasn’t random.
It was intentional. Powerful. Rooted. The kind of thing that didn’t exist without purpose or protection.
The kind of environment that attracted men like Wyatt because it understood them on a level the rest of the world never would.
I didn’t know the full shape of it yet. But my instincts weren’t alarmed. They were alert. Curious. Engaged.
Charleston felt like a place where he wouldn’t have to keep running.
And maybe it could be a soft place for him to land.