Chapter 22
AMELIA
Teddy met us at the bottom of the gangway like he’d been waiting for his cue.
“Ms. Emerson,” he said, hands folded neatly behind his back. “If you’ll come with me, the ladies have made some arrangements.”
“Arrangements,” I repeated. “That sounds ominous.”
Levi squeezed my hand. “Translation: they’re about to adopt you. Good luck.”
His brothers were already calling him from the dock, a chorus of Dane voices and insults. He kissed me once, quick and sure, then jogged after them, leaving me with Teddy and the faint smell of salt on the air.
“This way,” Teddy said.
Inside Dominion Hall, the house felt different than it had last night. Less like a fortified secret and more like a hive—quiet, but humming with unseen activity. Morning light poured through tall windows, pooling on polished floors. Somewhere, I heard distant laughter. Female voices.
Teddy led me down a corridor I hadn’t seen yet, past a series of closed doors, until he stopped in front of one near the end.
He opened it and stepped aside.
“This is for you,” he said. “Courtesy of Miss Allard and Miss Bradford. They insisted.”
The “room” was bigger than my first apartment.
It was a dressing suite—soft gray walls, a faintly floral rug, a bank of mirrors with lights around them, and a closet that made my brain short-circuit.
Dresses, jumpsuits, blouses, shoes organized by height and color.
Racks of clothes in my approximate size.
Someone had laid out a selection on a low ottoman: a pale blue sundress, a cream silk blouse with wide-leg trousers, a breezy linen number in muted green.
Camille and Hazel were already there.
Camille looked like someone had dropped her into a J.Crew catalog—dark hair twisted up messily, marine-biologist tan, eyes that assessed and amused in equal measure.
Hazel was shorter, with soft features and bright eyes that telegraphed trouble in the kindest way, curly hair pulled into a low bun that looked like it had been done in a hurry and still managed to be cute.
“You must be Amelia,” Camille said, crossing the room with that effortless French glide people pretend not to envy. Her accent was faint, more lilt than barrier. “I am Camille.”
“And I’m Hazel,” the redhead said, offering a hand and a grin.
I shook both their hands, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I felt. “Hi. Sorry about the … yacht hair.”
Hazel waved that off. “Please. You should’ve seen me the morning after Gideon first brought me here. I looked like I’d come out second best in a fight with a leaf blower.” She tipped her head. “You look very ‘woke up on a billionaire’s boat after life changed.’ It’s a vibe. We can work with it.”
Camille’s gaze flicked over me, clinical but not cruel. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you with everyone at once,” she said. “Seven Charleston wives, five Montana fiancées—it’s a lot. We decided to ease you in.”
“By dragging me into a couture hostage situation?” I asked with a smile.
Hazel snorted. “Exactly. Now, shower. We’ll talk while you de-frazzle.”
They’d already laid out towels, neatly folded, and a small collection of travel-sized products on the bathroom counter—fancier versions of the basics.
Shampoo that smelled like citrus and herbs, body wash that promised things like “restorative moisture” and probably cost more than my favorite boots.
I hesitated in the doorway. “You don’t have to—”
“Amelia,” Camille said gently. “We’ve all been where you are. Dropped into this house, into these men’s lives, feeling like you fell through a trapdoor. Let us do this. It makes us feel good.”
Hazel added, “Also, we desperately want to hear how you and Levi met, and it’s easier to interrogate you if you’re captive in a dressing room.”
That made me laugh, which apparently had been the objective.
“Fine,” I said. “I surrender.”
The shower was quick. Hot water, good pressure, the kind of soap that made my skin feel like I’d borrowed someone else’s. I left my hair damp and let Camille attack it with a round brush and a dryer while Hazel rifled through dresses like a general assessing battle plans.
“Where are you from?” Hazel asked, tugging the blue sundress against her own body and checking it in the mirror before tossing it to the side.
“Canada,” I said. “Ontario. My parents are still there.”
“Nice, normal?” Hazel asked, like she was taking a daily history.
“As normal as two people who think The New York Times is light reading can be,” I said. “No secret fortunes, no second families.”
Camille’s eyes warmed. “Ah. The opposite of Dane men.”
“Yeah,” I said wryly. “The opposite of Dane men.”
Hazel held up the muted green linen dress and nodded decisively. “This one,” she said. “Easy, breezy, journalist-in-Charleston chic. Good for lunch at Promenade, lets you breathe in the humidity, pretty enough to make Levi’s eyes cross later.”
“Promenade,” I repeated, as Camille zipped me in.
“That’s Meghan’s restaurant,” she replied.
“You’ll love her,” Hazel said. “She’s like a petite tornado in chef whites.”
“She’s been talking about you this morning,” Camille added, stepping back to assess her work. “Reading your articles. She takes her research seriously.”
That sent a flicker of unease through me. I lived for research. Being on the other end of it felt … exposed.
Camille must’ve seen something on my face, because her tone softened. “She’s on your side,” she said. “We all are. That’s why we wanted to meet you before we throw you into the full lion’s den. The Charleston wives can be … enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic, how?” I asked.
Hazel perched on the ottoman, tucking one leg under her.
“Well, they’re all married now. Portia—she’s Silas’s wife—is a wedding planner.
One of the best-known in the country. She planned this insane joint wedding for all the Charleston Danes.
Seven weddings, one day. It was like a military operation with chiffon. ”
“Seven,” I echoed, brain snagging. “Wow. So that’s seven Montana Danes and seven Charleston Danes.”
Hazel nodded. “Yeah. Byron apparently made it his life’s work to overpopulate the gene pool.”
I let out a low whistle. “Fourteen Dane sons. No wonder the man walks around like he’s seen things.”
Camille stared at me, then laughed, a little helplessly. “You might need a spreadsheet.”
“We’re going to need Portia to stop smiling every time we say ‘wedding,’” Hazel added. “The Montana brides are only just starting to talk about it, and she’s already got three Pinterest boards ready.”
I snorted. “That … is terrifying.”
I meant it as a joke, but something in me fluttered—low, sharp, unexpected.
Marrying Levi.
The thought slid through me like a breath I’d been holding for two years without realizing it.
I’d imagined it once, in those months when we were falling in love overseas—quick flashes of rings and vows and a life that didn’t involve briefing rooms or classified nightmares.
I’d buried it after he disappeared, shoved it so deep it calcified.
But sitting here now, with women who loved Dane men …
Was this real?
Was my life changing shape in front of me?
Was I really the kind of woman who could end up at one of those joint weddings they were laughing about?
The thought didn’t scare me.
It warmed me.
“You’ll meet Portia,” Camille promised. “And the others. They wanted to be here today, but we convinced them it was better if we did this in stages.”
Hazel handed me a pair of low-heeled sandals. “Here. Walkable, still cute. You’re about to eat some of the best food of your life. You don’t want to do it with blisters.”
I slipped them on. In the mirror, I looked like a slightly more polished version of myself.
My freckles were still my freckles. The circles under my eyes were still there, just slightly blurred by concealer.
But there was something new in my eyes. Something softer.
Something that looked suspiciously like hope.
“Ready?” Hazel asked.
No.
“Yes,” I said.
Promenade sat on the Battery, in the ground floor of a historic home that looked like it had been plucked from a movie set about old Charleston and carefully, painstakingly maintained by someone with expensive taste.
The SUV pulled up to wrought-iron fencing and a gate flanked by ivy-wrapped brick pillars. The upper stories of the house rose above us, wide porches with white columns, ceiling fans spinning lazily even this early in the day.
“This is … a house,” I said.
“This is a temple,” Hazel corrected. “To butter and seafood and the unholy genius of one Meghan Delaney.”
“Promenade is technically invite-only,” Camille added as we stepped out. “And they’re only open for dinner. But Meghan decided we needed a ladies’ lunch, so …” She spread her hands, a little helpless, like she still wasn’t used to this level of casual power. “Voilà.”
Inside, the space was all dark wood and gleaming brass, the old bones of the house preserved and dressed in modern restraint.
The main dining room had low, warm light from shaded sconces and candles in hurricane glass.
The tables were set with simple white linen, heavy silverware, and handmade pottery plates that looked just imperfect enough to be expensive.
Finn Carroll spotted us as soon as we walked in.
He moved like a former athlete turned operations director—efficient, economical, an easy confidence in the way he threaded through staff and furniture. His dark hair was slicked back, sleeves rolled to the forearms.
“Ladies,” he said, that faintly amused tone suggesting he was long past being surprised by Danes and their orbit. “Welcome to Promenade’s lunch service. Try not to scare the staff.”
Hazel saluted him with two fingers. “No promises.”
“This must be Amelia,” he said, turning to me. His gaze was assessing, but not unfriendly. “I’m Finn. Meghan’s right hand, occasional therapist, frequent fire extinguisher.”
“I thought you were her director of operations,” I said.