Page 10 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he boutique was trying too hard.

That was my first impression as I stepped inside—pastel wallpaper with palm fronds, curated racks spaced like someone had read a blog post about “luxury minimalism,” and a citrusy scent being pumped through the vents like it could erase bad taste.

Still, the lighting was good. I made a mental note to snap a mirror selfie before I left.

“Sloane, darling!” chirped a woman in a cream linen jumpsuit and far too much optimism for noon on a Sunday. “We’re so excited you’re here!”

I offered my most charming smile—the one that said I’m gracious, but I’m also very busy —and let her air-kiss both cheeks.

“Happy to be here,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses to the top of my head. “The space looks … fresh.”

Her face lit up like I’d handed her a medal. “We’re going for that ‘Charleston girl meets C?te d’Azur’ vibe. Think barefoot yacht weddings. Champagne in clay tumblers. You get it.”

Unfortunately, I did.

She led me toward a seating area with rattan chairs that were gorgeous but clearly chosen by someone who had never eaten carbs. I perched on one anyway, crossed my legs, and pulled out my phone like a sword.

“I’ve blocked off an hour,” I said sweetly. “If we move fast, we can fit in a reel concept brainstorm, two outfit pulls, and some story content.”

“Oh, absolutely. And we’ll comp everything, of course.”

Naturally.

I gave a demure nod like she was doing me a favor instead of the other way around.

The place wasn’t exactly ready for national spotlight, but it had potential—if you knew how to stage it properly.

Soft lighting, new signage, maybe a better scent diffuser and a no-nonsense culling of their tackier inventory (the fringe jacket by the door was offensive, and not in the fun way).

Still, Charleston girls would eat it up, and my audience loved aspirational content with just enough accessibility to feel like a treat.

I’d shoot a soft-focus reel, lean into quiet luxury, maybe talk about “effortless dressing for the modern belle.” Then I’d post a carousel—one slide with a matcha I didn’t drink, another with a quote about softness being strength, and then a final mirror shot in something I wouldn’t be caught dead in twice.

Tag the boutique, drop a discount code if they were smart enough to set one up, and voilà—instant clout for them, passive income for me.

People assumed influence was easy. But when you’re selling a fantasy, every frame matters. And I don’t sell anything I wouldn’t let on my grid, even for money. Well—unless it’s a lot of money, and then maybe we blur the background and pray.

Charleston had charm, sure. But Palm Beach?

Palm Beach had taste. It wasn’t about being rich there.

It was about being polished. Glossy, discreet, generational.

No one flaunted a yacht —they docked it behind a club that didn’t even have a sign.

Charleston was still trying to make matching sets and pearl headbands a personality.

Bless.

It wasn’t that I looked down on people who hadn’t grown up with money. I just didn’t get them. The struggle-is-beautiful, work-until-you-bleed culture made me itch. If I had to suffer to wear a dress, it wasn’t couture. And if I had to justify my taste to someone, they were already beneath me.

Elegance wasn’t just about labels—it was about knowing you belonged in the room before you even entered it.

As she flitted off to get a rack “curated just for me,” I angled my phone for a quick shot—nothing too polished, just sun-kissed and casual, like I woke up glowing and hadn’t spent twenty minutes contouring.

I tagged the boutique in my story with a white heart and a caption that read: Sunday scouted

I sighed. Palm Beach suited me better than Charleston ever had.

In Palm Beach, luxury was assumed, not performed.

The women there had stylists who shopped for them.

Their husbands didn’t just write checks—they ran hedge funds, legacy foundations, entire kingdoms of quiet power.

Everyone whispered wealth like it was a religion, and God forbid you wore a logo big enough to be read from across the room.

Charleston tried. It dressed itself up in old money aesthetics—monogrammed linen and smocked heirloom dresses and bourbon served from decanters older than the state of Nevada—but it still had this …

grit. This undercurrent of people who worked.

Who didn’t know the difference between Goyard and Gucci and thought pearls made anything classy.

In Palm Beach, I never had to explain myself.

Never had to apologize for expensive taste or pretend to be humble about a closet full of resort collections.

Charleston still expected you to seem grateful for privilege—as if I hadn’t been born into it, raised on it, taught to wield it like a weapon wrapped in silk.

They called girls like me spoiled. I called it well-appointed.

Just as I hit post, the glass storefront vibrated suddenly with a low, sharp crack.

I blinked. Sat up straighter.

Outside on King Street, two men were arguing—no, shouting—on the sidewalk. One was wiry, younger, maybe early twenties, in sagging jeans and a ball cap. The other was built like a linebacker and wore a puffer vest like he thought he was in New York instead of Charleston.

I could feel the shift inside the boutique immediately.

The salesgirl by the dressing rooms froze. Linen Jumpsuit’s laugh trailed off mid-pitch. Someone’s chihuahua in a designer tote let out a high, nervous yip.

Another shout—this time louder. Angry. Threatening.

And then I saw the glint of metal.

“Oh, my God,” someone whispered.

The wiry guy had a knife.

Of course, he did.

I stood, heart hammering, body on autopilot. Boutique Girl lunged for the door, as if her five-foot frame was going to save the day.

“Wait,” I snapped, grabbing her arm. “Let someone else handle it.”

And like a wish summoned, he appeared.

At first I wasn’t sure. He was in jeans and a black tee, his walk casual. But something about the way he moved made me straighten.

Grounded. Dangerous. Familiar.

The man from the ball.

It had to be.

I couldn’t see his face—not really. Just the sharp edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way his hand flexed at his side like it knew how to break things.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t shout. He just moved.

The guy with the knife lunged toward the other one—chest puffed, blade flashing in the sun like he’d watched too many movies and thought he was the main character.

Then the man I knew in my bones stepped in.

Fast.

Controlled.

He blocked the wrist. Pivoted. Grabbed the guy’s arm and twisted hard enough that I swore I heard a pop. The knife hit the sidewalk with a metallic clatter. In the same breath, he shoved the kid down, knee to chest, pinning him like it cost him nothing.

A few people screamed. A few ran.

I stood rooted to the spot, my hands trembling, heart jackhammering behind my ribs—but not from fear.

From recognition.

The man stood slowly. Not rushed. Not rattled. Just calm and whole.

And as he turned, for the briefest second, our eyes met through the glass.

My lungs forgot how to function.

Because it was him.

I couldn’t prove it. Didn’t have a name. But I knew. The way he looked at me—like the night before was inked into his memory just like it was into mine. Like I was a secret he didn’t plan on forgetting.

But it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something older.

A flicker of recognition that didn’t belong to candlelight or masks or silk sheets.

Like I’d seen that face—those eyes—before.

Unmasked. Somewhere loud and bright and ordinary.

But the memory danced just out of reach, hazy and infuriating.

I’d brushed shoulders with him another time, I was sure of it. And the not-knowing was driving me mad.

Then he was gone. Slipping back into the crowd like nothing had happened. No words. No fanfare.

Just heat and precision and the burn of what I didn’t know yet.

“Did you see that?” Boutique Girl gasped, clutching her chest like she’d just survived a natural disaster. “Who was that?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I was already pulling out my phone again, opening my camera to catch the last flicker of him disappearing down the block.

There was no mask this time.

No red dress.

No chandelier.

But somehow, it still felt just as dangerous.

And I was already wondering when he’d show up next.

I lowered my phone slowly, fingers tight around the case like it might anchor me to the moment.

“Is everyone okay?” Linen Jumpsuit asked, voice trembling as she peeked through the glass.

I blinked and turned toward her like I’d forgotten we were in the middle of a work meeting. Like I hadn’t just watched the same man wreck someone’s wrist that had made me forget my own name less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Yes,” I said, smoothing my hair even though it didn’t need it. “Just a little … unexpected.”

Boutique Girl was still staring at the street like she half-expected the sidewalk to explode.

I stood tall, and pasted on the kind of smile that had gotten me out of speeding tickets, awkward dates, and one ill-advised brunch with a rival influencer. “Let’s keep going.”

Linen Jumpsuit looked relieved, like I’d just given her permission to return to her regularly scheduled fantasy. “Of course! I’ve got the rack pulled and ready for try-ons.”

I followed her to the back, the boutique suddenly too bright, too staged, too still.

I slipped behind the curtain of the changing room and let the linen robe fall off my shoulders, slipping into the first look like muscle memory.

Crisp white midi dress, gold detailing, open back.

Pretty enough for the feed. Pretty enough to pretend I was focused on the job.

But my mind was still outside.

Still locked on him.

I turned toward the mirror, tilted my chin, adjusted the straps, then stared hard at my own reflection.

What are you doing, Sloane?

Pretending.

Pretending I wasn’t still flushed. Pretending I hadn’t just watched a man dismantle a threat like it was breathing. Pretending this was just another boutique, just another day, just another campaign.

But it wasn’t.

Because fate had a flair for drama. And apparently, so did I.

I tried on three more outfits, filming quick clips of each in vertical format. I recorded a voiceover in my notes app that I’d layer later: “When the fit hits just right, and you know you’re about to own the whole damn room.” I even staged a flat lay with some of their jewelry on a woven tray.

Professional. Composed. Marketable.

But I was lying to myself.

Because all I could think about was him.

Not just the night before—though that alone could’ve earned him a recurring guest role in my dreams—but what he’d done today. The way he’d handled it. The way he’d disappeared again, like he’d never even been there.

He was danger dressed in quiet confidence. He didn’t announce himself, didn’t demand attention.

He just took it.

And something in me—some spoiled, tightly coiled, silk-and-steel part—wanted more of that.

I didn’t know what fate had in store. But I knew one thing: it wasn’t finished with me yet.

Not if he was still out there.

Not if that look—through the glass, through the noise—meant what I thought it did.

Because even if I didn’t know his name, my body remembered everything else.

It was only a matter of time before I found him again. Or he found me.