Page 12 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he gate clicked shut behind me with a metallic finality that felt too loud, too sharp for a Sunday. The kind of sound that belonged in a prison, not at the entrance to a Lowcountry estate with ivy-draped columns and security cameras hidden in magnolia trees.

Quentin stood just inside the portico, hands clasped behind his back like he’d been waiting there all day for me to show. Which, knowing him, he probably had.

“Welcome home, Miss Carrington,” he said.

I offered him a brittle smile and slipped past without comment, heels tapping a staccato rhythm across the marble floor that matched the beat of my nerves. My phone buzzed in my bag, but I didn’t reach for it. I needed a minute. Hell, I needed a drink. A scalding shower. A five-star escape plan.

Because no matter how many deep breaths I took on the ride back, I couldn’t shake the image of him.

The man from the boutique.

The man from the ball.

The man who felt like a secret I’d already known.

There was still an ache in my chest I couldn’t name. Not fear. Not lust—not exactly. But something more invasive. Something that had rooted under my skin and was growing there now, tangled and defiant.

I’d planned to stay the week in Charleston—line up some brand meetings, post a few curated stories, pretend I was reconnecting with my Southern roots before slipping back to Palm Beach for oceanfront lunches and rooftop Pilates. That had been the idea, anyway.

But now?

Now it felt like staying even one more night was asking for fate to pour herself a drink and get comfortable.

Maybe I should cut the trip short.

Maybe I ought to head back early.

Palm Beach didn’t have mystery men in masks or street fights outside of boutiques. Palm Beach had Botox brunches, curated conversations, and the kind of luxury that let you forget other people even existed.

Maybe that was the problem.

Charleston was unpredictable—full of old money, new drama, and the kind of genteel chaos that wore seersucker and smiled through its teeth. Palm Beach was different. Polished. Controlled. Like living inside a jewelry box with gold hinges and a lock only the right people had the key to.

That’s the world I was raised in—or at least the Southern version of it. Daddy made the money, Momma made the rules, and I grew up knowing exactly which fork to use, what kind of apology bought silence, and how to walk into any room like I belonged there more than anyone else.

We didn’t do messy. We did curated. And if something cracked, we threw a party loud enough to distract from the noise.

But lately, I wasn’t sure if Palm Beach felt like home or like hiding.

Sure, I had my rituals. My barre class by the beach.

My facialist who whispered secrets while she microneedled away the evidence of last night’s choices.

My closet organized by occasion, not color—tennis whites, yacht whites, gala blacks, and one drawer of silk slips for men who didn’t deserve them.

It was a life most girls would kill for.

But lately it felt … hollow. Like the sound of your own heels echoing down an empty marble hall.

Still, I wasn’t ready to admit that out loud. Not yet.

I made it halfway to the stairs before I heard voices from the parlor.

My parents.

Momma’s high, champagne-smooth drawl. Daddy’s clipped cadence, honed by boardroom deals and old-money backgammon.

I paused, just out of sight, and took a breath.

I wasn’t in the mood.

But the moment I stepped into the doorway, both heads turned like I’d just descended from a cloud.

“There she is,” Momma said brightly, setting down her teacup with a porcelain clink. “We were starting to wonder if you’d been swept off by some dashing stranger.”

She was trying to joke. It didn’t land.

Daddy rose from the settee and kissed my cheek. “Everything all right, sweetheart? You’re a touch pale.”

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly, adjusting my sunglasses on top of my head even though we were inside. “Just a long morning.”

Momma’s eyes narrowed—not suspicious, just strategic. She could smell drama the way most people noticed smoke.

“Well,” she said, brushing an invisible speck of lint from her linen trousers, “you’ll be feeling even better after a nice lunch tomorrow.”

I blinked. “Lunch?”

“At the club,” Daddy added, too casually. “One o’clock. We’ve got a reservation on the veranda.”

I tilted my head. “Since when do we do lunch at the club on Mondays?”

Momma’s smile was just a little too wide. “Since we had a lovely invitation from the Hartsfields.”

And there it was.

I crossed my arms, leveling them both with a look I’d been perfecting since boarding school. “Is this a setup?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Momma said.

“So, yes,” I deadpanned.

Daddy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just lunch, Sloane. Not a proposal. You’ve known the Hartsfields since you were a child.”

I ignored that. “And who exactly am I meant to be entertaining over lobster bisque? Last time I checked, Lilly didn’t have a brother.”

Momma hesitated, then gave me that overly casual blink that always preceded manipulation. “Their nephew. Recently moved down from D.C. to take over the coastal portfolio. Tall, handsome, very well-educated. He just bought a place on the Battery.”

“Of course, he did,” I muttered.

“He’s serious,” Daddy added. “Knows how to carry himself. Solid reputation. No scandals.”

“How boring.”

“Sloane,” Momma said in a tone laced with too much meaning, “this isn’t about you finding fireworks. It’s about stability. About someone who understands the world you live in.”

My stomach twisted—just a little. Not because of the nephew or the Hartsfields or even the calculated charm offensive they’d clearly coordinated.

But because even if they were offering me everything I’d ever been raised to want—money, reputation, pedigree—I couldn’t stop thinking about the man who hadn’t given me his name.

The one who didn’t need a résumé.

The one who, even without a mask, still managed to feel like the most dangerous secret in the room.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

Momma beamed like that meant yes.

But it didn’t.

Because the only thing I was thinking about was how fate kept playing this game. And how I couldn’t stop playing back.

Upstairs, the air was cooler. Quieter. The kind of hush that felt deliberate, like the walls themselves knew not to intrude.

I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the marble bathroom, twisting the gold tap until the tub began to fill with steaming water and imported lavender salts.

It was absurd, really—this ritual of bathing like royalty, soaking in oil blends that cost more than rent in most zip codes.

But it was familiar. And right now, familiar was the only thing I could handle without unraveling.

I sank into the water slowly, my muscles sighing as the heat hit them. The bath always worked like a sedative—an anchor for a girl raised to appear unshaken, even when she was splintering inside.

My fingers found the edge of the brass tray I’d pulled across the tub, the leather-bound journal resting atop it. It was one of the good ones—French paper, soft like cream, lined with ink I’d once had custom-mixed in Milan. I uncapped the pen and wrote the date with practiced flourish, then paused.

What now?

I stared at the blank space beneath it like it might give me the answer.

Eventually, I wrote:

If I married a man like they want me to, I’d know which fork to use for every course and never raise my voice above a cocktail whisper.

I'd be photographed exactly twice a year—once at a fundraiser and once on a yacht—and I’d always laugh just slightly too late so no one thought I was trying too hard.

I paused again, letting the thought settle. Then:

We’d live in a waterfront house designed by someone with a hyphenated last name. I’d host luncheons for causes I didn’t care about, take Xanax like vitamins, and smile across the table at a man who looked good in linen and kissed like he had somewhere better to be.

I stopped writing. Because I wasn’t sure if I hated the idea or if I was just afraid I didn’t.

Some girls fall in love first. Some sign the paperwork and hope the feelings follow.

That’s what I wrote next. Small. Quiet. Almost like a confession.

I’d read about it—arranged marriages that started with strategy, alliances, family ties.

Girls who barely knew the names of the men they were promised to.

And somehow, many of them grew to love each other.

Maybe not with the heat of fairy tales, but with something steadier.

A companionship built on mutual gain. Respect. Routine.

There was a kind of comfort in that. Safety in predictability. You knew what you were getting. There were no surprises—no passion that could scorch you. No heartbreak that could hollow you out.

And wasn’t that what girls like me were groomed for, anyway?

To keep the peace. To wear the dress. To play the part.

I’d already performed in every other area of my life—smiling for cameras I didn’t care about, sipping drinks I didn’t like, pretending brunch was fulfilling and wellness was a personality.

I’d nodded politely when men bragged about trust funds they didn’t earn and laughed at jokes that made my skin crawl.

I’d been agreeable. Delightful. Marketable.

So why not this?

Why not marry a man who fit the frame, even if I couldn’t feel the picture?

The water lapped gently around me, scented and silent, but my mind was still loud.

I closed the journal and rested my head against the edge of the tub, eyes drifting toward the chandelier above me—crystal, imported, and entirely unnecessary.

Maybe that’s what I’d become.

Necessary to no one. Beautiful, expensive, and always one good shake away from shattering.

I let my eyes close.

But I didn’t rest.

I couldn’t.