Chapter 2: Southern Rivalries

When Marcus Sterling returned to Savannah, nearly every debutante in town came out to catch a glimpse.

The entire Sterling estate hummed with anticipation. Pickup trucks squeezed between gleaming imports, Spanish moss swaying in the sticky Georgia dusk. Even the gardenias seemed to bloom brighter just for the ball.

Rumor had it each girl had skipped meals for days, hoping to make the right impression.

They picked at tiny hors d’oeuvres, eyeing the fried green tomatoes and pecan pie like forbidden fruit. My own stomach growled just watching them.

From my seat, the debutantes looked like a gathering of Daisy Buchanans—delicate, slim, all nipped waists and pastel gowns. Their dresses shimmered in pastel hues, and someone’s daddy’s name was whispered in every corner, as important as the cut of their pearls.

You’d think Gatsby himself was about to walk in. Lace fans fluttered, false lashes batted, and every smile was calculated, charming—hungry.

My mom pinched a chunk of flesh on my arm, disappointment clear as day.

Her grip was sharp as a crab claw, Sunday pearls tight at her throat, frown etched deep. "Look at you—your arms could bench-press half the football team."

Her words stung worse than a jellyfish. My cheeks burned, but I bit my tongue. I wanted to snap back, to tell her I liked my arms just fine, but the words stuck. In Savannah, you learn early—some things you swallow with your sweet tea.

I was speechless.

My mouth opened, then snapped shut. I’d learned there was no winning this battle.

"Mom, Dad’s only a captain in the National Guard. Even if I starved myself to death in front of him, he wouldn’t spare me a second glance. Besides..."

I tried to sound breezy, but resignation crept in. Dad’s never been sentimental—his love was all crisp salutes and silent pride.

"Besides what?"

She shot me that look—eyebrows arched, lips pursed—already certain she knew my answer.

I pressed my lips together and stayed silent.

I traced condensation on my water glass, refusing to meet her eyes. Some truths were too private for a debutante ball.

Besides, I already have someone I like.

He might not have Marcus Sterling’s pedigree, but he treats me with a gentleness that’s rare in this town.

A memory flickered: the warmth of a hand on my back, a whispered joke in my ear. I smiled despite myself, heart squeezing tight.

My mom snapped me back to reality.

Her voice cut through the daydream like a church bell. "The Governor’s son is here. Quiet now."

I looked up and saw a tall, upright man striding in, trailed by Savannah’s most eligible bachelors.

His entrance was a parade—shoulders squared, jaw set, every movement deliberate. The boys behind him looked like shadows compared to his light.

All the debutantes’ eyes lit up at once.

It was like a spotlight sweeping the room. Giggles sharpened, every pose hit just so.

Marcus Sterling was pale, devastatingly handsome, dressed in tailored black, radiating unapproachable nobility.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine—crisp, controlled, the kind of man who makes you wish you’d picked different shoes.

He sat, crossing his legs with practiced ease. Girls gasped, a chorus of sighs and silk as they leaned in.

But he didn’t glance at any of us.

He stared straight ahead, cool as marble—untouchable. His indifference was a dare and a wall all at once.

My mom looked crushed.

She slumped, dreams of matchmaking dashed, fingers twisting her pearls.

I ignored her and tuned in to the string quartet.

I closed my eyes, letting the violins sweep over me. Maybe if I focused hard enough, I could disappear into the music.

The performance dragged, notes thick as molasses. My eyelids drooped, the world blurring.

A familiar hint of jasmine drifted by, and suddenly I was in that backyard from my dreams.

Dusk, sky streaked pink and gold. Crickets sang, a dog barked somewhere down the street. The old swing creaked in the breeze.

The room was dim; a breeze stirred the curtains. I couldn’t quite make out his face.

The air shimmered, honey-warm. My heart thudded, anticipation thrumming. His features stayed just out of reach—always familiar, always blurred.

He leaned in, lips at my ear, voice soft as he called my nickname.

"Annie, you’re here."

His breath was warm, his voice a low hush. The sound of my name in his mouth made my knees weak, even in dreams.

I clung to him greedily. "Babe, I was so bored today. I missed you so much."

The words tumbled out, a confession I’d never dare make awake. My arms wrapped tight around his neck.

As I spoke, my hands undid his belt.

He let out a rough, teasing laugh, and my pulse skipped. Everything felt reckless, like we were the only two people in the world.

He lowered his head to kiss me. "Good girl. I missed you, too."

His lips found mine, slow and lingering. Heat coiled in my belly.

"Hmph, I don’t believe you."

I arched an eyebrow, pouting, but my smile betrayed me.

With a mischievous bite, I nipped his lips.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his grip at my waist tightening.

Suddenly, Marcus—dozing on stage—gasped in pain.

It was so real, it jolted me out of my dream. The connection felt electric, impossible to ignore.

Pandemonium broke out; the music stopped cold.

The quartet froze. A cellist’s bow clattered to the floor. Voices rose, nervous and excited.

I snapped awake.

I jerked so hard I nearly knocked my chair over, heart racing as if I’d run a mile.

"Mr. Sterling, are you all right?"

An older gentleman leaned forward, concern etched on his face. The mayor’s wife tutted nearby.

I watched as the proud, cold Marcus calmly wiped blood from his lips.

He dabbed with a monogrammed handkerchief, face unreadable. I felt a chill—a sense he’d handled far bigger scandals before.

"It’s nothing."

He waved off their concern with a flick of his wrist, as if a split lip was nothing.

"Carry on."

The musicians scrambled to recover, but the air was changed—electric, uncertain.

I sat frozen, mind blank, napkin twisted in my fists.