Chapter 2: Carter corners Sloane against a stone garden wall, his teeth scraping her neck as he growls 'One last time before I become your stepfather' - her body arching betrayingly into his touch even as her nails draw blood down his arms.
The shattered champagne flute glittered on the gravel like spilled diamonds under the cold moonlight. Vivian stood frozen, one hand still hovering near her mouth, her eyes wide pools of confusion darting between Sloane’s disheveled form pressed against the car door and Carter’s unnervingly still silhouette a few feet away. The scent of spilled wine and night-blooming jasmine hung thick in the air, cloying and sweet.
"Sloane?" Vivian’s voice trembled, barely a whisper. "What… what happened? Are you alright?" She took another hesitant step forward, her gaze snagging on the tear in Sloane’s lace dress near the knee, the smudges of dirt. "You look…" Words failed her. Her eyes flicked back to Carter, searching his impassive face. "Carter? Did something happen?"
Sloane’s throat was sandpaper. Every instinct screamed to point, to accuse, to shatter Vivian’s blissful ignorance with the ugly, impossible truth. He kissed me. He’s the Vegas bartender. He knew who I was. The words burned on her tongue, acidic and desperate. But Vivian’s expression – pure, unadulterated concern mixed with dawning horror at her daughter’s state – was a physical barrier. The betrayal wasn't just hers; it would gut her mother.
Carter moved first. Smoothly, deliberately. He stepped forward, placing himself slightly between Vivian and Sloane, his posture shifting from predatory stillness to protective concern. It was a masterful performance. "She’s shaken, Viv," he said, his voice low and reassuring, the gravelly edge smoothed into velvet. He didn’t touch Vivian, but his presence was a shield. "Came out for air, tripped on the gravel in those heels." He gestured vaguely towards Sloane’s discarded keys still lying near her feet. "Dropped her keys, scraped her knee trying to pick them up. Gave herself quite a fright."
The lie landed with the precision of a scalpel. Plausible. Humiliatingly mundane. Sloane stared at him, her green eyes blazing with fury she couldn’t voice. His gaze met hers for a fleeting second – cool, assessing, utterly devoid of remorse – before returning to Vivian.
"Oh, honey!" Vivian surged forward, finally reaching Sloane. Her cool hands fluttered over Sloane’s arms, her face etched with maternal worry. She gently brushed gravel dust from Sloane’s cheek where Carter’s thumb had been moments before. "Are you hurt? Let me see your knee." She crouched slightly, peering at the tear in the lace, thankfully obscuring the worst of the scrapes beneath. "It’s just a scrape, darling, but oh, your beautiful dress!"
"It’s… it’s fine, Mom," Sloane managed, her voice hoarse. She forced herself to look away from Carter, focusing on her mother’s anxious face. "Just clumsy. Like he said." The admission tasted like ash. She saw Carter’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, from the corner of her eye.
Vivian straightened, pulling Sloane into a brief, tight hug that smelled of expensive perfume and peonies. "You scared me half to death, rushing off like that! And then finding you out here…" She pulled back, holding Sloane at arm's length, her eyes searching her daughter’s face. "Are you sure you’re alright? You seemed… upset at dinner."
Sloane swallowed hard. "Just… overwhelmed. All the… splendor." She gestured weakly back towards the distant glow and music of the reception. "Needed a minute."
"Of course, darling," Vivian murmured, though a flicker of doubt remained in her eyes. She smoothed Sloane’s wild hair back from her forehead. "Weddings are emotional. Especially for the bride’s daughter." She offered a shaky smile. "Come back inside? We’ll get you cleaned up. Carter, darling, could you…?"
Carter was already bending, effortlessly scooping up Sloane’s scattered keys. His fingers brushed hers as he pressed them into her palm. The contact was brief, electric, a silent reminder of his power over the situation. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Let’s get you both back to the party." He offered Vivian his arm, the picture of solicitous concern.
Vivian took it gratefully, leaning into his solid frame. "Such a fuss," she sighed, her voice regaining some of its usual lightness, though it was strained. "But thank you, Carter. Always knowing what to do."
Sloane trailed behind them, numb, her keys digging into her clenched fist. The gravel crunched under their feet, the sound loud in the heavy silence. Carter’s broad back, encased in the dark suit, blocked her view of Vivian. She watched the way Vivian’s hand rested trustingly on his forearm, the way her head tilted slightly towards him. Each step back towards the manicured gardens and the twinkling lights felt like walking towards an execution.
The music swelled as they re-emerged near the terrace. A few heads turned, curious glances taking in Sloane’s disheveled state and Vivian’s pale face. Carter steered them deftly towards a quieter corner table, away from the main throng.
"Sit," he instructed Sloane, pulling out a chair. His tone brooked no argument. Vivian hovered anxiously.
"I’ll get some water and a damp cloth," Carter said, already turning towards the bar area.
"No, no, I’ll go," Vivian insisted, patting his arm. "You stay with Sloane. Keep her company." She hurried off before either could protest, her ivory silk gown flowing behind her.
The moment Vivian was out of earshot, the air between Sloane and Carter crackled back to life. He didn’t sit. He stood beside her chair, looming, his presence a dark pressure. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses felt grotesquely distant.
"You lied," Sloane hissed, keeping her voice low, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "Smoothly."
"Saved your ass," Carter countered, his voice a low rumble meant only for her ears. He leaned down slightly, bracing one hand on the back of her chair. "You were about three seconds from blurting out something catastrophic. Would that have helped Vivian?"
"It would have been the truth!" Sloane whipped her head around to glare up at him. The fury in her green eyes was molten. "She deserves the truth! Not this… this charade!"
"And what would the truth get her?" Carter’s gaze was hard, unyielding. "Heartbreak. Humiliation. A canceled wedding tomorrow that everyone has traveled miles for. Ruin." He leaned infinitesimally closer. "Is that your loyalty? Destroying her because you can't handle the mess we made?"
The accusation hit like a physical blow. Sloane flinched. "We? You knew! You pursued her knowing who I was!"
"I didn't pursue her because of who you were," Carter shot back, his voice dropping even lower, rougher. "It was coincidence. Bad fucking luck. Or maybe," his eyes raked over her face, lingering on her lips, "really fucking good luck, depending on your perspective." He straightened abruptly as Uncle Frank ambled over, a fresh whiskey in hand.
"Whoa, Sloaney!" Frank boomed, oblivious to the tension thick enough to choke on. He squinted at her dress. "You wrestle a topiary? Lose?" He chuckled, taking a sip. "Where’s Viv? Looking radiant tonight, isn’t she? Carter, my man, you landed a prize!"
Carter’s mask snapped back into place instantly. A charming, easy smile touched his lips. "That I did, Frank. Lucky man." He clapped Frank lightly on the shoulder.
Frank grinned, swaying slightly. "Damn right! Hey, Sloane, you seen the dessert spread? They got these little chocolate things… like heaven in a bite." He wandered off towards the dessert table, humming tunelessly.
The brief interruption did nothing to ease the vise around Sloane’s chest. Carter’s gaze returned to her, the charm evaporating, leaving only the cold calculation. "See?" he murmured. "Easy. Everyone’s happy. Vivian’s happy."
"Except me," Sloane whispered, the words scraping raw.
Carter’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. "Except you," he acknowledged, the words devoid of sympathy. "But you get to choose. Blow it all up now, devastate her in front of everyone." He nodded towards Vivian, who was weaving her way back through the tables, a damp napkin and a glass of water in her hands, her face still etched with concern. "Or," he continued, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper that vibrated through Sloane’s bones, "you keep your mouth shut. Let the wedding happen. Let her have her day. Her happiness."
He leaned down again, his breath warm against her ear as Vivian approached. "And after," he breathed, the words a dark promise that sent a forbidden shiver down her spine despite her fury, "we figure out what the hell this is." He pulled back just as Vivian reached the table.
"Here we are, darling," Vivian said, pressing the cool, damp napkin into Sloane’s hand. "Gently now. Carter, be a dear, pull that chair closer so I can sit." She fussed over Sloane, dabbing at the scrape on her knee with trembling fingers. "There, that’s better. Just a little scrape. Oh, but your dress…"
"It’s okay, Mom," Sloane said, forcing her voice to be calm. She took the glass of water Vivian offered, her fingers icy against the condensation. "Really. It’s just a dress." She avoided looking at Carter, who had silently obeyed, positioning Vivian’s chair right beside hers. His leg brushed against hers under the table – an accident? A reminder? – and she jerked her knee away.
Vivian sighed, settling into her chair. She reached out and took Carter’s hand, lacing her fingers through his. The sight of their joined hands on the pristine tablecloth made Sloane’s stomach lurch. "Honestly, Carter," Vivian said, her voice regaining its soft warmth as she looked up at him, "what would I do without you tonight? First calming Sloane down, now fetching cloths… you’re my rock."
Carter lifted Vivian’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His eyes, however, flickered over Vivian’s head to meet Sloane’s. The message was clear, chilling in its certainty. See? This is how it is.
"I’m always here, Viv," he murmured, his gaze still locked with Sloane’s over her mother’s shoulder. "For whatever you need."
Sloane looked away, staring blindly at the untouched glass of water in her hands. The cool moisture beaded on her skin. The music swelled again – a slow, romantic waltz. Vivian sighed happily, resting her head against Carter’s shoulder for a moment. The scent of peonies was overwhelming. Carter’s leg pressed against hers again under the tablecloth, deliberate this time, insistent. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t move. The weight of his ultimatum pressed down on her, heavier than the humid night air. Keep silent. Let the wedding happen. Protect Vivian’s fragile happiness. And then? Face the terrifying, inevitable reckoning with the man whose touch still burned on her skin, whose kiss still haunted her mouth, and whose dark promise hung between them like a sword. The music played on, a cruel soundtrack to her paralysis. The dance floor beckoned, bathed in soft light, a stage awaiting its players. Vivian’s blissful sigh echoed in her ears. Carter’s heat seared through the linen against her leg. Sloane closed her eyes, trapped in the gilded cage of her own making, the taste of betrayal and stolen kisses thick on her tongue. The choice was made. The silence screamed.
The damp napkin felt like ice against Sloane’s scraped knee, Vivian’s touch gentle but unwelcome. Each dab was a tiny jolt, a reminder of the gravel, Carter’s grip, the lie hanging thick between them. Vivian sighed, smoothing Sloane’s torn lace. "Such a shame about the dress, darling. But thank goodness Carter was here to help." She squeezed his hand resting beside hers on the tablecloth. Sloane watched their intertwined fingers, Vivian’s diamond engagement ring glinting under the fairy lights, a cold, hard beacon of the impossible situation.
"Just clumsy," Sloane repeated, the words tasting like grit. She forced a sip of water, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the heat flaring where Carter’s thigh pressed firmly against hers under the table. He hadn’t moved it. It was an anchor, a brand. His gaze, when she dared a glance, was fixed on the dance floor, seemingly relaxed, but she felt the tension radiating from him, a low hum beneath his casual posture. He shifted slightly, increasing the pressure, a deliberate, silent communication. Don’t.
The waltz ended, replaced by something upbeat, and Uncle Frank lurched over, holding two champagne flutes precariously. "Found the good stuff!" he announced, sloshing golden liquid onto the flagstones. "None of that cheap bubbly near the dessert table. Here, Sloaney, hair of the dog!" He thrust a glass towards her.
"I’m good, Uncle Frank," Sloane said quickly, pushing it away. The thought of alcohol churned her stomach. The scent of the spilled champagne mingled sickeningly with the peonies and the lingering trace of Carter’s leather-and-soap smell that seemed embedded in her senses.
"Suit yourself," Frank shrugged, downing one glass and starting on the other. "Carter? Man of the hour! To tomorrow!" He raised the remaining flute.
Carter lifted his own water glass, his smile easy, practiced. "To tomorrow, Frank." He took a sip, his eyes flicking back to Sloane. They held hers for a beat too long, dark and unreadable.
Vivian beamed. "Oh, I just can't wait." She leaned her head against Carter’s shoulder again. "It’s all perfect. The flowers, the music... even Sloane’s little tumble, reminding us life’s messy sometimes, right?" Her laugh was light, carefree, a knife twisting in Sloane’s gut. "But we have each other. That’s what matters."
"Always, Viv," Carter murmured, his voice low and intimate for Vivian, but his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate circle on the back of her hand. Sloane saw it. The casual intimacy felt like a violation. Her own skin prickled where his thigh still burned against hers. She needed to get away. Now. Before the scream building in her chest escaped.
The scrape on her knee stung sharply as she shifted. "Bathroom," she blurted, standing abruptly. The chair legs scraped loudly.
Vivian looked up, surprised. "Of course, sweetheart. Do you need help?"
"No! No, Mom. Fine." Sloane avoided looking at Carter, but she felt his gaze, heavy and assessing, tracking her as she turned. "Just... freshen up."
She navigated the crowded terrace blindly, the laughter and music a cacophony against the roaring in her ears. The opulent hallway of the mansion felt cavernous, cool marble underfoot a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the terrace. She pushed through the heavy door of the ladies' lounge, leaning back against it, gasping for air. The room was empty, mercifully silent except for the muffled thump of bass from outside. Peony-scented air freshener hung cloyingly thick.
Sloane stumbled towards the row of ornate mirrors. The reflection staring back was a stranger – wild red hair escaping its pins, mascara smudged under wide, haunted green eyes, a smear of dirt on the lace neckline, right where Carter’s knuckles had brushed her shoulder. Her lips felt swollen, tender. She touched them, the memory of his demanding kiss in the parking lot slamming back: the taste of wine and anger, the scrape of gravel under her knees, the sheer, reckless heat that had momentarily obliterated everything but him. Revulsion warred with a treacherous, humiliating flicker of remembered desire. Your body remembers. It wants. His gravelly voice echoed in the tiled room.
She turned on the gold faucet with trembling hands, splashing icy water on her face. It dripped down her neck, soaking the lace, but did nothing to cool the internal fire. The silence in the plush bathroom was worse than the noise outside. It amplified the chaos in her head. Carter’s ultimatum pounded like a drumbeat: Keep silent. Let the wedding happen. Protect Vivian. And then? After, we figure out what the hell this is. What was it? Betrayal? Lust? A sick, twisted joke?
Her phone buzzed violently in her clutch, startling her. She fumbled it out. A text from her best friend, Maya: How’s the Step-Daddy dearest reveal going? Still think he’s secretly a prince? 😉
A choked sob escaped Sloane. She stared at Maya’s words, the cheerful emoji a grotesque contrast to her reality. She wanted to type the truth. It’s him. The Vegas guy. He kissed me in the parking lot. He’s marrying my mom tomorrow. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, shaking. Telling Maya would make it real. It would be the first crack in the dam.
The door handle rattled. Sloane shoved the phone back into her clutch like it was burning her, wiping furiously at her wet face. A woman Sloane vaguely recognized as one of Vivian’s friends swept in, humming the wedding march. "Oh, hello dear! Isn't it all just perfect?" the woman chirped, heading for a stall. "Vivian looks radiant. And Carter! Such a handsome, solid man. So attentive."
Sloane forced a tight smile, grabbing a thick, monogrammed towel to pat her face dry. "Yeah," she managed, her voice rough. "Solid." The word tasted like ash. Attentive. She remembered his attention in Vegas, the focused intensity, the way he’d known exactly where to touch her. The way he’d pinned her against her car tonight. Solid. Like a prison wall.
She couldn’t stay here. Couldn't go back out there. She needed space where Vivian’s blissful ignorance and Carter’s oppressive presence couldn’t reach her. Where she could breathe without smelling peonies or tasting his kiss. Sloane pushed away from the sink. The exit door at the far end of the lounge, marked ‘Private - Staff Only’, beckoned. It led towards the service corridors, away from the guests, away from the gilded nightmare of the reception.
Slipping through the heavy door, she found herself in a dimly lit, utilitarian hallway smelling faintly of cleaning solution and stale grease. The muffled clatter of dishes and distant shouts of kitchen staff replaced the string quartet. It was a different world, stark and real. She leaned against the cool concrete wall, closing her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. The rough texture against her back was grounding.
A door banged open further down the corridor, spilling brighter light and louder noise. Carter stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. He wasn’t looking her way, tugging at his tie as if it choked him, his face etched with a tension absent during his performance for Vivian. He hadn't seen her yet, standing in the deeper shadows near the staff restroom entrance. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, tapping it against his palm, his gaze fixed on the far wall, lost in some private storm.
Sloane froze, shrinking back. Seeing him like this, stripped momentarily of the charming fiancé act, was unnerving. This was the Carter from Vegas – intense, coiled, unpredictable. The man who’d whispered forbidden things over her wine glass. The man whose kiss had felt like a brand. Her breath caught, a tiny, betraying sound in the quiet hallway.
His head snapped up instantly. Dark eyes, sharp and alert, locked onto her hiding spot in the shadows. The unlit cigarette was forgotten in his hand. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, the mask slipping entirely, revealing the raw conflict beneath – frustration, heat, and a dangerous recklessness that scared her far more than his smooth lies. He took a single step towards her, the sound of his polished shoe on the linoleum echoing like a gunshot in the narrow space. The kitchen door rattled again, a server yelling about dessert trays. Carter stopped, his jaw tightening, his gaze never leaving hers. The air crackled with unspoken words, unfinished business, and the terrifying weight of the wedding just hours away.