Page 5 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he thing about being a Carrington was that you didn’t get invitations. You got expectations dressed up in cardstock.

So when a thick white envelope with my name embossed in gold script appeared—alongside fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and a croissant I hadn’t asked for—I knew better than to act surprised.

Quentin didn’t say a word as he set the tray down on the terrace table. He just nodded once, disappeared back inside, and left me blinking against the morning sun.

I peeled the envelope open with one manicured finger and pulled out the contents.

Masquerade.

Black tie.

Seven o’clock.

No press, no photos, no names.

Of course.

Charleston’s social elite didn’t throw parties.

They curated atmospheres. Tonight’s event came courtesy of the Langfords —moneyed, mysterious, and rumored to be on their fifth generation of political entanglements and discreet scandals.

I hadn’t seen them in years, not since the eldest daughter’s wedding featured a harpist, a live dove release, and a silent divorce filing three weeks later.

I set the invite down and took a sip of juice.

A masquerade meant secrets. Anonymity. Masks, games, shadows.

It also meant rich men pretending to be dangerous and dangerous men pretending to be rich.

Which meant I needed to look the part.

I was halfway through my second espresso when Momma glided in wearing a floral silk robe and an expression that said she was already disappointed in me.

“Ah,” she said, her gaze flicking to the invitation. “So, you’re going.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

She ignored the sarcasm, lifting the card and turning it between her fingers like it might hold hidden codes. “I hear the Langfords invited some very interesting guests this year. A few D.C. types. New money from Atlanta. And at least one hedge fund heir with a private jet.”

“Sounds riveting.”

“You could do worse,” she said, taking a sip from the coffee Quentin had just placed beside her. “At least pretend to be interested. It’s a room full of opportunity, Sloane. Don’t waste it by sulking in the corner.”

“I don’t sulk,” I said. “I observe. It’s chic.”

She gave me that look again—somewhere between pity and critique—and reached for a slice of melon.

Daddy strolled in a moment later, golf shirt crisp, sunglasses already on. He took one glance at the invite and grinned.

“Knew they’d remember you. Carringtons don’t get left off lists like that.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered.

“Wear the red dress,” Momma said without looking up. “The one with the slit. And maybe something with sleeves this time.”

“Subtle contradiction, Momma.”

She waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

Daddy leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Be nice to whoever’s under the mask. You never know where the next deal—or marriage—might come from.”

“You two make me sound like a desperate debutante at a cattle auction.”

He laughed. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t start any fights.”

I arched a brow. “What makes you think I’d start anything?”

He gave me a wink. “Try not to scare off anyone offering you a ride this time.”

I forced a polite smile, but my throat tightened.

He didn’t know. Not really. He was just teasing—assuming I’d been my usual difficult self with whoever happened to be behind the wheel. He had no idea that the man in question hadn’t flinched. That he’d smirked. That he’d looked at me like I wasn’t untouchable.

And just like that, I was back there again—in the heat, in the hum of his voice, in the scent of sweat and leather and whatever stubborn thing Charlie was made of.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

I hated that I hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

Which was exactly why I needed to go to this masquerade. Not to network. Not to flirt with tragic heirs or please my parents.

But to forget.

That was the plan, anyway.

I headed upstairs, peeled out of my pajamas, and stepped into the closest thing I had to casual armor—a white linen sundress with delicate eyelet cutouts.

Not too stiff, not too relaxed. Perfect for Charleston lighting and camera angles.

I added a pair of oversized sunglasses, a straw bag I hadn’t actually bought but had tagged in three separate posts, and a set of bangles that clinked like intention.

By eleven, my face was done, my hair was smoothed into soft waves, and I was sitting cross-legged on the edge of my childhood bed, holding my phone like it was a weapon.

I scanned the grid. Liked a few tagged photos.

Replied to a story or two with a heart. Checked my DMs. Cleared the ones I didn’t want to be tempted by.

Then I hit record.

“Back in Charleston,” I said, letting my voice sound lighter than I felt. “And yes, the humidity is trying to kill me.”

I smiled, turned the phone just enough to catch the breeze ruffling the drapes, then panned down to my bare legs and the croissant I hadn’t touched on the silver tray. I added a voiceover clip later about southern mornings.

By noon, I was walking through the wrought-iron doors of The Four Columns Club, a private space in Mount Pleasant that smelled like money and air conditioning.

The staff knew me—not personally, not in any way that mattered—but they knew the last name, and they knew the camera I carried meant someone, somewhere, might be watching.

I found my usual spot near the terrace fountain, ordered a mocktail in a coupe glass, and got to work.

Outfit transitions first: from sunglasses on to off, hat in hand to hair down, a slow spin in front of the trellised roses I knew would pop against the white of my dress.

I filmed a reel pretending to sip champagne and added music that made everything feel softer, dreamier, more intentional than it really was.

“Charleston is showing off again,” I captioned one post, overlaying it with a looped clip of me laughing at nothing.

The likes came quickly. Comments trickled in. A few heart-eye emojis, two men I’d blocked last spring trying to find their way back in, and a brand account asking what lipstick I was wearing.

I answered none of them.

I was working, but I wasn’t connected.

Everything I did felt rehearsed. Easy. Like muscle memory. And maybe that was the problem—when everything becomes performance, it’s hard to tell when something’s real.

The only thing that had felt remotely real lately was a smirk in the sun and a truck that smelled like motor oil and trouble.

Charlie.

I hadn’t posted about him. Hadn’t even typed his name again after last night’s search turned up nothing. But he was still there, humming beneath my skin, stubborn and uninvited.

I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just a weird moment. An out-of-body experience. A heat-induced lapse in judgment.

But every time I scrolled past another filtered brunch or fake-candid laugh, I saw his eyes instead. Unbothered. Deep. Like he knew exactly who he was and didn’t give a damn if anyone else did.

That kind of certainty was dangerous. It stuck to me in ways I didn’t like.

By the time I left the club, I’d posted three reels, scheduled a fourth, and locked in a brand collab that would pay for the boutique hotel I was pretending to stay in. On paper, it had been a productive afternoon.

Later, I pulled into the drive at Daddy’s with the windows down and the AC blasting, the smell of salted lemon lingering on my wrist from a hand cream sample I wasn’t planning to post about but probably would anyway.

The inbox on my phone was a wasteland of influencer noise—collab requests, pitch decks, vaguely desperate emails from startup brands asking me to “consider a gifting opportunity.”

I scrolled through them as Quentin opened the front door like the world’s most dignified ghost.

“Anything urgent, Miss?”

“Just another brand asking me to shill oat milk for store credit.”

I walked past him and straight up the staircase, thumbs still working.

By the time I made it to my bedroom, I’d already declined two offers—one from a luxury candle company that wanted a three-post commitment in exchange for “exposure,” and another from a sustainable shoe line whose founder used Comic Sans in his signature.

I had standards. And I’d rather go barefoot than tank my feed’s aesthetic.

I dropped onto the chaise at the foot of my bed, pulled my laptop onto my knees, and opened my banking app.

Not because I was worried, but because I liked the reassurance.

The numbers hadn’t moved much since last night.

My trust fund sat untouched, still bloated and bored.

The income column from brand deals looked healthy.

I moved a few grand into a new savings folder I labeled St. Moritz – Winter Content and sat back with a sigh.

I hadn’t been to St. Moritz since I was seventeen, the year Addison Duvall invited me to her family’s chalet and we got drunk on champagne stolen from a cellar we weren’t supposed to find.

Addison had married some oil heir and gone full ghost after the wedding, but I still thought of her every time I saw the word après.

Maybe I’d go back this December. Take a photographer.

Wear that shearling coat I’d only worn once.

Or maybe I’d book Tulum. Or the Maldives again, but solo this time.

Maybe that was the problem. Too many maybes. Too many places. Too many versions of me scattered across continents and curated grids.

I didn’t know what I wanted. Only what looked good wanting. And that was always the hardest thing to filter.

Dinner was early—five o’clock sharp, like we were trying to beat the rush at a country club we owned.

Quentin served roasted sea bass with fingerling potatoes and a citrus-herb dressing I didn’t ask for but knew better than to critique.

Daddy poured himself a second glass of something French and expensive.

Momma took one bite of salad and declared it “charming.”

We ate in the sunroom because the dining room was being “re-staged for fall”—meaning the decorator had decided wicker was out, velvet was in, and half the chairs were somewhere between reupholstery and purgatory.

The conversation was civil in that tight, airless way it always was. Polite tension with matching linen napkins.

Daddy asked about my follower growth. Momma asked if I’d spoken to the Maddox twins lately—meaning, was I dating anyone they could casually mention at brunch. I said no. She said “pity.” Daddy checked his Rolex. I finished my fish quietly.

At one point, Daddy said, “Don’t forget to be gracious tonight.”

I said, “I’ll try not to trip over anyone's tax bracket.”

He chuckled. Momma didn’t.

By six-thirty, I was back upstairs, standing in front of my closet in a towel, hair wrapped like a crown of surrender, skin already misted with rosewater and silent judgment. I’d brushed and flossed my teeth twice—couldn’t very well seduce a man with sea bass breath.

The red dress waited like a dare.

I slid it on slowly, letting the satin cling to my hips and fall into place like it had missed me. The slit hit higher than it should have. The neckline was aggressive. The sleeves were sheer enough to piss off Momma and just structured enough to appease her.

I paired it with diamond studs, a vintage clutch, and a mask made of delicate lace and tiny black beads that caught the light when I moved. It had arrived that morning from a boutique in Milan—overnight delivery, no questions asked. I’m not even sure who ordered it.

By the time I finished my makeup—smoky eyes, blood-red lips, cheekbones that could wound—I was supposed to be on the road. The invitation said seven.

I glanced at the time. Seven-oh-eight.

Perfect.

Anyone who mattered arrived fashionably late.

Anyone truly important didn’t arrive on time for anything at all.

I was Sloane Carrington. I didn’t need to be on time. I needed to be unforgettable.