Chapter 11
11
CLAIRE
T he second Diego suggested flying down, I should have shot it down.
I should have reminded him that this wasn’t some luxury vacation or one of our drunken New York nights where we crashed an Upper East Side gala just for the free champagne. But the moment I told him about the masquerade ball, he’d declared that I was absolutely not going without him.
“It’s investigative journalism, Diego,” I had argued, pacing my hotel suite, the invitation still clutched in my hand.
“It’s a masquerade ball, Claire,” he’d shot back. “And you’re telling me Marcus Dane personally invited you? I’m coming.”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And why, exactly?”
“To protect you from yourself,” he said, dead serious. “And to see you in a ballgown. And maybe to make your military billionaire stalker seethe with jealousy, just for fun. ”
I had groaned but relented, mostly because I knew Diego well enough to know there was no stopping him. And, if I was being honest with myself, having an extra set of eyes on me at that party wasn’t the worst idea.
Which was how I ended up at the airport the next morning, waiting for him to strut through the arrivals gate in his signature too-expensive sunglasses and perfectly tailored linen blazer, looking ready to conquer Charleston.
When he spotted me, he spread his arms wide. “Ah, there she is. My reckless, slightly self-destructive best friend. You look stressed. It’s hot. I hate it.”
Diego Gil—my best friend, my producer, and the only person on Earth who could keep up with me—lowered his sunglasses just enough to give me a once-over. “And you, oh fearless leader of The Unseen , look like a woman knee-deep in a bad decision.” His lips curled. “Tell me it’s about a case and not the ridiculously sexy billionaire breathing down your neck.”
I rolled my eyes as he pulled me into a quick but firm hug, the familiar scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around me. “Welcome to the South.”
He pulled back, eyes sweeping over me. “You need a drink. But first, tell me everything. And I mean everything.”
I sighed, linking my arm through his as we walked toward my rental car. I’d finally caved and rented one—looked like I’d be here a while, and relying on Ubers for everything was getting old fast.
“Buckle up,” I muttered. “It’s a lot.”
By the time we made it back to The Palmetto Rose, Diego was fully briefed, and his mood had shifted from playful to something sharper.
That was, until we stepped inside the hotel .
Diego came to a full stop in the lobby as he took in the grand chandeliers, the polished marble floors, and the wrought-iron balconies overlooking the courtyard. “Okay,” he said, nodding approvingly. “I take back what I said about the South. If this is what it’s serving, I’m intrigued.”
I smirked. “Charleston growing on you already?”
He scoffed, dramatically adjusting the cuff of his linen blazer. “Let’s not get carried away. I’m still personally offended by the humidity and the complete lack of a decent espresso bar within walking distance. But this—” he gestured around, “—this I can work with.”
I shook my head, dragging him toward the elevator. “Your suite’s down the hall from mine. Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Oh, I fully intend to get comfortable,” he said as the elevator doors slid open. “A king-sized bed? A clawfoot tub? Southern hospitality that includes someone calling me ‘sugar’ before noon? Claire, I may never leave.”
I rolled my eyes, stepping inside with him. “Just try not to fall in love with the place before we get out of here.”
He sighed, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Impossible. I already feel like I belong in some steamy Southern gothic drama where I spend my days sipping mint juleps and solving rich people’s scandals.”
I side-eyed him. “That’s literally what we’re doing.”
“So let me get this straight,” he said later, sprawling across the tufted chaise lounge in my suite. “The Dane brothers basically run this town like some kind of sexy Southern mafia, the sheriff is firmly in their pocket, you’re chasing a lead on a secret organization that may or may not exist, and Marcus Dane is flirting with you like he wants to devour you whole.” He removed his sunglasses dramatically. “Do you hear yourself?”
I groaned, rubbing my temples. “I know how it sounds, but it’s real. All of it.”
“Oh, I believe you.” His lips formed a slow, knowing smirk. “But let’s focus on the most pressing matter—Marcus fucking Dane.”
I exhaled sharply. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Oh, we are,” he said, sitting up and fixing me with that don’t bullshit me stare. “You let him kiss you?”
I crossed my arms. “I didn’t let him do anything.”
He snorted. “Uh-huh. And yet, he did. And you—” he pointed at me, “—are currently blushing like a virgin heroine in a smutty novel. Which you are not.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me. And you’re into him.”
“I’m not.”
He raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Claire.”
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. Because the truth was, I had let Marcus kiss me. And not just that—I had kissed him back. And I had spent half the night replaying it in my head, wondering what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Diego grinned like he could see right through me. “God, I cannot wait for this ball.”
I sighed, flopping onto the bed. “You realize we’re actually investigating a potentially dangerous conspiracy, right?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, Department 77 and all that. We’ll dig, we’ll investigate, we’ll be our usual brilliant selves. But we’re also going to make your very dangerous man incredibly jealous.”
I groaned. “He’s not my man.”
Diego smirked. “Tell that to his possessive ass when he sees me on your arm.”
Diego could say things like that because, quite frankly, he could pull it off. He was the kind of man people noticed—tall, effortlessly put together, with sharp cheekbones and warm brown skin that hinted at his Spanish heritage. His dark hair was always perfectly styled, and his wardrobe—no matter the occasion—looked straight off a runway. He had charm in spades, could talk his way into (and out of) anything, and had the kind of easy confidence that made people assume things about us when we were together.
More than once, people had mistaken him for my boyfriend. He was obviously gay—once you looked past the devastating good looks and the effortless, masculine charm. But at first glance? Especially in places like Charleston, where people still clung to certain expectations? They saw a gorgeous man at my side and drew their own conclusions.
Diego never bothered to correct them right away. He loved playing into it, especially when it annoyed someone.
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Diego, focus.”
“Oh, I am focused,” he said, plucking the invitation off the nightstand and twirling it between his fingers. “But before we dive into the grand conspiracy portion of our program, let’s address the absolute most important detail of this masquerade—what the hell are you wearing? ”
I hesitated. Then, begrudgingly, I muttered, “Marcus sent me dresses.”
Silence.
Then—
“Excuse me?” Diego sat up so fast he nearly toppled off the chaise. “Marcus Dane personally sent you dresses?”
I sighed, kicking off my heels. “Yes.”
“As in, hand-selected ballgowns for you?” His voice climbed an octave. “Did they come with a note? Roses? An ominous yet sexy threat?”
I gestured toward the closet, where the three garment bags hung neatly inside. “They’re in there.”
Diego was off the sofa in an instant, practically sprinting across the room. “Claire, I swear to God, if one of these is red?—”
He unzipped the first bag. Paused. Let out a soft gasp.
I knew exactly which one he was looking at.
“Oh. Oh. ”
I flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Which one?”
“You know which one.” His voice was reverent. “The silver one. Claire, it’s barely legal. It’s obscene. It’s—” He turned, eyes wide with delighted horror. “It’s the one you have to wear.”
I groaned into my pillow.
Diego yanked the dress free of its bag, holding it up. “This is a power move. He wants you in this because he wants to watch you walk into that ball wearing something that’ll make every man in the room want to rip it off you.” He smirked. “Including him.”
I pushed myself up, rubbing my temples. “Or he just wants to fuck with me. ”
He shot me a look. “Honey . ”
I sighed, glancing at the dress. He wasn’t wrong. The thing was pure sin—silver, sleek, clinging to curves I hadn’t even realized I wanted to show off. It was bold. Daring. The kind of dress that whispered I know exactly what I’m doing .
Which meant wearing it was either the worst idea I’d ever had or the best.
“Try it on,” Diego said, waggling his brows.
I hesitated. Then, with a muttered I hate you , I grabbed the dress and disappeared into the bathroom.
Two minutes later, I stepped out.
Diego sucked in a breath.
“Shut up,” I warned.
He did not shut up.
“Claire.” He clasped his hands together like he was about to cry. “If Marcus Dane doesn’t lose his entire goddamn mind when he sees you in this, I will personally set fire to Dominion Hall.”
I turned to the mirror, my breath catching slightly.
Damn.
The dress was obscene.
It clung to every inch of me, dipping low in the front, hugging my waist, falling like liquid metal over my hips. The slit was dangerous, slicing high up my thigh, a promise of scandal if I moved too fast. It was temptation stitched into fabric.
And Marcus Dane had picked it for me.
Heat licked up my spine.
Diego, sensing my weakness, grinned. “You have to wear it.”
I met his gaze in the mirror.
Yeah.
I did.