Page 16 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

T he Isle of Palms Country Club was everything I despised wrapped in a bow of privilege and pretense. The place reeked of old money—polished wood, fresh-cut flowers, and the faint tang of gin.

I stood at the entrance, my boots scuffing the pristine marble, and nearly turned back. The valet had eyed my truck like it was a stray dog, and the hostess’s smile was so tight I thought her face might crack.

I hated these clubs, with their starched linens and whispered deals, where every handshake came with strings and every conversation was a performance.

Elias had roped me into this meeting with the family attorney, and the weight of it—the trust, the money, the final nail in Dad’s memory—sat heavy in my chest. I adjusted my jacket, a concession to the club’s dress code, and forced myself through the doors, telling myself I’d be in and out before the first martini hit the bar.

The hostess led me to the veranda, a shaded oasis of wicker and wealth overlooking manicured greens that stretched to the horizon.

I spotted the attorney right away—Henry Whitaker, a silver-haired man in a blazer, sitting at a corner table with a view of the ocean.

He stood as I approached, his handshake firm but warm, his eyes crinkling like he was genuinely glad to see me.

I’d expected a cold, paper-pushing suit, but Henry had the vibe of an uncle you actually liked, the kind who slipped you a beer at family reunions and told stories that made your mom blush.

“Charlie, good to see you,” he said, his drawl soft but steady. “Take a seat. We’ve got some ground to cover, but I promise not to bore you to death.”

I managed a half-smile, settling into the chair, and for the first time that day, I felt a flicker of ease. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I’d feared.

Henry launched into the trust, his voice calm and measured, like he was explaining a recipe instead of a financial empire.

He laid out why it mattered—not just for me, but for the Danes as a whole, the way unclaimed billions could be a chink in our armor, a vulnerability that enemies like Department 77 could exploit.

“It’s not about the money itself,” he said, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. “It’s about control, Charlie. Securing the family’s future, making sure no one can pull the rug out from under you.”

I nodded, actually listening, the weight of his words sinking in.

For once, I wasn’t just hearing a lecture—I was learning something, seeing the bigger picture of what Dad had built and why it was my job to protect it.

I still hated the idea of signing away his memory, but Henry’s steady presence made it feel less like a betrayal and more like a duty.

Then she walked in.

Sloane Carrington, all white blazer and gold buttons, her sunglasses perched like a crown, moving like she owned the veranda and everyone on it.

She didn’t see me, thank Christ, and took a seat at a table across the room, her back to me, flanked by her parents and followed shortly by another couple I vaguely recognized.

I slouched just a fraction, enough to draw a raised eyebrow from Henry.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his tone light but curious, his eyes flicking over my shoulder.

I shook my head, keeping my voice low.

“Just someone I’d rather not run into.”

Sloane was the last person I needed today—her sharp eyes, her entitled sneer, the way she’d almost clocked me on King Street.

I didn’t want her sniffing around my life, especially not when I was trying to keep my head clear of the woman in red, whose memory still burned hotter than the steak I’d eaten last night.

Henry nodded, a knowing glint in his eye, and made a show of reaching for his water glass, sneaking a glance at Sloane’s table.

“The Carringtons,” he said, settling back with a small smile. “Good family, solid Southern stock. Thatcher’s made a fortune in real estate, and Sylvia’s got a knack for keeping the right people in line.”

He chuckled, like he was sharing an inside joke, but I just snorted, the sound sharper than I meant.

“That’s the last thing I need,” I said, cutting into the air with my hand. “Can we get this moving? I’d rather sign the damn papers before the appetizers show up.”

Henry didn’t press, his expression softening, and he slid a stack of documents across the table, pointing out the spots where I needed to sign. I grabbed the pen, my jaw tight, and started scrawling my name, each stroke feeling like a step away from Dad.

Halfway through the second page, I glanced up, my eyes drawn to Sloane’s table like a magnet.

A new guy had joined them—tall, golden, his smile so slick it could’ve sold swamp land.

No doubt a perfect match for Sloane Carrington, the kind of guy her parents would hand-pick to keep their dynasty shiny.

But as I watched, I caught the way she shifted in her seat, her shoulders stiff, her smile too tight, like she was holding her breath. It wasn’t the polished performance I’d expected—she was uncomfortable, maybe even pissed, and the sight made me smirk.

Trouble in paradise? Good. Let her squirm.

I leaned back, signing the last document with a flourish, and glanced at Henry.

“How about we order some lunch?” I said, my voice lighter than it had been all day. “Might as well enjoy the show.”

Henry grinned, signaling the waiter, and we ordered—grilled salmon for him, a burger for me, loaded with enough bacon to make the club’s cardiologist wince.

The food hadn’t arrived yet when Sloane’s table became a masterclass in Southern bullshit.

The six of them—Sloane, her parents, the other couple, and Mr. Golden Boy—bantered back and forth like they were filming a documentary on genteel living, all forced laughs and calculated pauses.

I could practically hear the clink of invisible wine glasses, the kind of conversation that danced around money and power without ever naming them.

Sloane played her part, nodding at the right moments, but her posture was off, her hands too still, like she was counting the seconds until she could bolt.

I chewed on a breadstick, my eyes narrowing, wondering what had her so rattled.

Golden Boy was laying it on thick, leaning in too close, his smile a little too wide, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Then Sloane stood, abrupt but graceful, excusing herself with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t look my way, didn’t even glance at the room, just moved toward the exit with a stride that was too controlled, too careful.

My gut twisted, the same instinct that had kicked in on King Street, and I watched her disappear through the veranda doors. The table of six didn’t miss a beat, the remaining five leaning forward in unison, their heads close like they were plotting a coup.

I smirked, imagining them scheming about wedding dates or stock portfolios, but the unease wouldn’t let go.

Something was off, and when Golden Boy stood a moment later, excusing himself with a charm that made my skin crawl, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

He headed for the same exit, his stride purposeful.

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping softly, and glanced at Henry.

“Gotta hit the head,” I said, keeping my tone casual, but my pulse was already climbing.

He nodded, unfazed, and I moved fast, weaving through the tables. I told myself this was stupid—Sloane was probably just tipsy, and Golden Boy was playing the gentleman, making sure she didn’t face-plant in the ladies’ room.

But my gut wasn’t buying it, and when I caught sight of him slipping into the women’s bathroom instead of the men’s, my blood went cold.

What the fuck?

I quickened my pace, my jaw tight, my hands curling into fists. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but every instinct screamed trouble, and I wasn’t about to let Sloane—spoiled brat or not—deal with it alone.

What the hell had I gotten myself into this time?

I reached the bathroom door, the polished wood gleaming under the club’s soft lighting, and paused, listening for any sound—voices, footsteps, anything that would tell me what I was about to interrupt.

The hallway was quiet, the murmur of the veranda fading behind me, but my heart was pounding, a mix of adrenaline and something I didn’t want to name.

Sloane wasn’t my problem, never had been, but the thought of her in there, cornered by that slick bastard, lit a fire in my gut I couldn’t ignore. I pushed the door open, slow and silent, ready for whatever was on the other side, my mind racing with possibilities—none of them good.