Page 3 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

M y daddy’s estate came into view like something out of a Southern gothic fever dream. It was three stories of white-painted brick framed by live oaks, Spanish moss, and pressure so thick you could bottle it.

Home sweet suffocation.

Foster was nowhere to be found, naturally. But the wrought-iron gates still opened for me the moment I approached, as if the house itself had been expecting me. As if it had already whispered to the staff that I’d arrived in someone else’s truck and should be handled accordingly.

The house had everything—views of the marsh, crown molding in every room, a wine cellar bigger than my first New York apartment.

But it also had eyes. Invisible ones. Watching.

Judging. Recording every misstep for later use in a carefully worded conversation over dinner or during a tense ride to a fundraising gala.

Growing up there was like living on a stage where the script changed daily, and no one told you until you got your lines wrong.

My parents loved me, I think. In their own way.

Daddy loved me like a CEO loves a promising protégé—he saw potential and expected results.

He gave me the tools to succeed, then got quiet when I used them differently than he would’ve liked.

Momma loved me like a debutante loves pearls—polished, displayed, and only appreciated when I sat just right and smiled just so.

They weren’t cruel. They were curated.

I moved away because I couldn’t breathe.

Because perfection, in that house, was not an aspiration—it was the bare minimum.

And the second I started building something of my own, something that didn’t follow the Carrington blueprint, it became clear that love here was conditional.

They still invited me back, of course. Still kissed both cheeks and poured champagne and called me their pride and joy at garden parties. But it was always followed by a but .

But why aren’t you settling down?

But is influencing really a career?

But when are you coming back home?

Truth was, I never really left. Not all the way. My trust fund had roots in the soil beneath this house. And like every beautiful Southern thing, it clung to you even after you tried to wash it off.

Inside, the air was cool, crisp, lemon-scented. The faint clink of ice from somewhere down the hall let me know the bar cart had already been rolled out.

I kicked off my sandals near the front door, not even pretending to care that I left them out of place. My bag thumped to the marble tile beside me.

“Miss Carrington,” came a voice from the grand staircase. I looked up to find Quentin, our house manager, watching me with a blend of professional concern and well-trained neutrality.

“Don’t worry,” I said, brushing past him. “I survived my little excursion into blue-collar America.”

He didn’t smile. He never did.

“Very good, Miss.”

Quentin had been with us since I was eight. Maybe earlier—I don’t remember a time he wasn’t there, quietly managing every detail of our lives with military precision and the emotional range of a marble statue.

Growing up with staff wasn’t strange to me. It was normal. Expected. I didn’t know other children made their own beds or poured their own cereal until I was ten and briefly enrolled at a progressive arts school where a girl named Maple told me my nanny was “weird.”

At home, someone was always there—folding my clothes, polishing my shoes, refilling my monogrammed water bottle with slices of cucumber cut into perfect stars. They were shadows at first, then names, then fixtures.

And yet, I’d never been allowed to get too close. That was the rule. You didn’t confide in staff. You didn’t cry in front of them. You certainly didn’t thank them like they were doing you a favor. You nodded. You dismissed. You moved on.

It was polite. It was professional. It was cold as hell.

Daddy used to say, “ Learn their names. Remember their kids’ birthdays. That’s how you earn loyalty. ” But what he really meant was: remember just enough to make people feel seen, never enough to make them feel equal.

Affection was a performance. Empathy was a tactic.

And in this house, even kindness had a power structure.

I sometimes wondered what Quentin really thought of me, but I never asked. And he never told. That was our arrangement.

I climbed the curved staircase, trailing one hand along the polished banister. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear Charlie’s voice—low, amused, maddeningly unbothered. Suit yourself .

I hadn’t even thanked him. Which felt … off. I didn’t like owing people things—especially not men with smug smirks and rough hands.

But Charlie didn’t fit into any of the categories I’d been taught to understand.

He wasn’t staff—he didn’t defer. He didn’t apologize when I bristled or scramble to make me more comfortable. He wasn’t a peer either—not the kind Daddy hosted on the veranda or toasted with top-shelf bourbon. He was something else entirely.

Unpolished. Uninterested. Unmoved.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because if he had been one of our people—the quiet, loyal kind who moved in the background and expected nothing—I would’ve known how to act. I would’ve known which smile to wear, which tone to use, what kind of power to flex.

But Charlie didn’t follow the rules.

He didn’t play the game.

And that made me realize—maybe for the first time—that I only ever felt safe when I knew where everyone stood. When I could place people into roles I understood: help, threat, asset, admirer. But Charlie didn’t stand anywhere I could point to.

He just stood.

Like he belonged.

That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

I turned into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The room hadn’t changed since my last stay—soft cream upholstery, oversized floral arrangements, a tufted velvet bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. Carefully curated. Timeless. Like a hotel suite frozen in a southern-belle fantasy.

I dropped my phone on the vanity, then caught sight of myself in the mirror. Sunglasses still on. Lip gloss faded. Sweat-dampened silk clinging to my back.

God.

I peeled off the blouse and let it fall to the floor. My eyes caught on a faint smear of dark gray near the bottom of my Hermès handbag.

Grease.

My jaw clenched.

Of course, that man would leave a mark. Even when he wasn’t touching me.

Before I could overthink it, the door creaked open behind me.

“Knock much?” I called, grabbing a silk robe from the back of the chair.

“Oh, hush. I’ve seen you in a diaper and worse.”

Momma.

She swept in like a social hurricane, perfectly preserved in a buttercream blouse, pearls, and the faint scent of tuberose. Her heels clicked across the tile like a warning.

“You’re flushed,” she said immediately. “You look … sun-slapped. Were you standing in that heat?”

“Yes, Momma,” I said, voice dry. “I thought I’d try heatstroke for fun.”

“Well, it’s not a good look,” she said, walking straight to the window and adjusting the curtains by a quarter inch.

“Lord, it’s stifling today. Your father’s already on his second cocktail, and I told him if he breaks another glass door with that golf swing, he’s paying for the replacement himself. ”

“Sounds like Daddy,” I muttered.

“And you,” she continued, turning to me with those manicured hands on her hips, “showing up in that truck.”

I stiffened. “News travels fast.”

Quentin had clearly tattled. Of course, he had. Charleston staff were trained in discretion but fed off gossip like blood.

“Your father is not thrilled,” she said, walking to my closet and peeking inside like she was taking inventory. “You know how that looks, Sloane. Riding around with some … some man in a pickup truck like a country song gone wrong.”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she said. “You just make the wrong one when you’re mad.”

“Thanks, Momma. That’s helpful.”

She turned and gave me one of her patented Charleston smiles—tight, white, and empty. “Sweetheart, I say it because I love you.”

But that was the thing. My family’s version of love was all performance and posture. Love was never loud or messy. It was whispered behind closed doors, polished for photographs, and corrected at the dinner table when you said the wrong thing to the wrong person in front of the wrong senator.

Before I could respond, a deeper voice called up the stairs.

“Sloane! You make it in one piece?”

Daddy.

I padded barefoot down the hallway and leaned over the banister. There he was—looking casual as ever in a pink golf polo, tan slacks, and a crystal tumbler in his hand.

“Just barely,” I called back.

He grinned up at me. “Tell me that’s a joke. Or did you really accept a ride from some grease monkey?”

I forced a tight smile. “He had working AC, and he was there. That’s more than I can say for Foster.”

Daddy shook his head, chuckling. “Lord have mercy. My daughter, ridin’ shotgun like it’s prom night in a Ford.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t a Ford,” I muttered.

“Doesn’t matter. You know better than that. You were raised with good sense. Don’t let the heat fry what’s left of it.”

“I wasn’t exactly hitchhiking,” I said, crossing my arms. “He offered. I accepted. End of story.”

“Nothing’s ever the end of the story,” he said, sipping his drink. “Especially not when you’ve got our last name.”

I didn’t respond. I just nodded and stepped back from the railing.

And he was right. It was never just one choice. One ride. One stain on a designer bag.

It was a headline waiting to happen.

Great.

Daddy took another sip, then looked up at me again. “So. How long you planning on staying this time?”

I hesitated. “A few days. Maybe a week.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You said that last time and ghosted us after three.”

“I had work,” I said.

“You take pictures in a bikini and call it work.”

I gave him a look. “And yet that bikini paid for your birthday trip to the Maldives, so you’re welcome.”

That earned a low chuckle. “Fair enough.”

He swirled the ice in his glass, then added casually, “We’re hosting the Strattons tomorrow night. Cocktail hour and supper on the terrace. Thought you could join.”

Of course, we were.

The Strattons had old money, political pull, and a son who made my skin crawl. Perfect.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, already trying to remember if I’d packed a dress suitable for pretending to be interested in land deals and foundation boards.

Daddy’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger—in calculation. “You need to be seen, Sloane. Remind people you still care about this city.”

“I do care.”

“Then act like it.”

I said nothing. Just leaned my hip against the railing, trying to pretend the floor wasn’t tilting beneath me.

Then, as if he’d just remembered something, he added, “You want me to find out who he was?”

I blinked. “Who?”

“That fella who drove you.” He tilted his glass toward me. “I know a few people out at the hangars. Could get a name. Real one.”

The offer hung in the air, sticky as the Charleston humidity.

Part of me wanted to say no. Pretend I didn’t care. Let it go.

But a bigger part—the one that still felt that stupid smear of grease on my bag—hesitated just a second too long.

Daddy smiled.

“Thought so.”

Later that night, I stood alone on the balcony outside my bedroom, looking down at the empty driveway. The air was quieter now. Heavy, but still.

I picked up my phone, opened Instagram, scrolled past a few curated reels and tagged photos from my last trip to Harbour Island.

Then I typed his name.

Just his first name, because it was all I had.

Charlie Charleston truck.

No results.

Of course, not.

Men like him didn’t live online.

They lived in hangars and grease-stained t-shirts and said maddening things that made you think about them twelve hours later in silk pajamas with a chilled glass of rosé in your hand.

What was I thinking? Honestly.

I turned the phone over and stared at my reflection in the black screen.

“You’re Sloane Carrington,” I whispered.

“Act like it.”