Chapter 4: A Southern Showdown

I watched as he walked toward me, step by step, the distance between us shrinking.

The world seemed to narrow to the sound of his shoes crunching on gravel, each stride impossibly slow and measured. My breath caught in my chest.

I probably looked like I’d seen a ghost. I gripped the tree tighter, knuckles white, praying I wouldn’t faint.

Just then, a woman in a pale yellow designer dress swept past me, deliberately bumping my shoulder.

Her perfume—something sharp and citrusy—clung to my skin. I staggered, barely catching myself.

"Marcus!"

Her voice was high and sweet, dripping with forced Southern charm. I recognized her—Lillian Sterling, the Governor’s niece.

I let out a sigh of relief. So that "Annie" just now wasn’t meant for me.

My heart slowed, embarrassment flooding in. I shrank back, grateful for the reprieve.

She greeted Marcus with open enthusiasm. "Marcus, did you come here especially to find me? How did you know I was here? I missed you so much! We haven’t seen each other in three years."

Her hands fluttered at his sleeve, face radiant with hope. The words poured out like sweet tea at a family reunion, saccharine and relentless.

She chattered on, but Marcus only replied with a curt, "Mm."

His nonchalance was absolute. He might as well have been talking to a telemarketer.

"If you’re finished, you can go back. And don’t call me that again."

His words were as cold as the Savannah River in January. He turned away, dismissing her without a backward glance.

With that, Marcus strode away without sparing her a glance.

His posture was rigid, shoulders squared. The look on his face left no room for argument.

His indifference left Lillian visibly frustrated.

Her mouth twisted in a silent tantrum. She glared at his retreating back, hands fisted at her sides.

As I tried to slip away, she blocked my path.

She stepped in front of me, heels clicking sharply against the stones. Her eyes narrowed, lips curled in disdain.

"Hey, what were you eavesdropping on?"

Her tone was pure accusation, voice pitched loud enough for others to overhear. I felt the heat of a dozen curious stares.

"Lillian, you’re mistaken. I was just passing by."

I kept my voice level, praying my hands wouldn’t shake. There was no way she’d believe me, but I had to try.

She sneered. "Marcus must be feeling charitable tonight, letting just anyone in off the street."

The insult stung—sharper for its casual cruelty. I clenched my jaw, refusing to rise to her bait.

"You’re obviously trying to seduce Marcus, you little tramp. Get out of my way!"

Her voice rose, slicing through the night. My face burned, but I held her gaze, standing my ground.

I swallowed my anger. "My dad is a captain, responsible for the city’s patrol division alongside the chief. Yet you call me an animal? Does that mean all the good men who serve this country are just lowly creatures?"

My voice rang out—steady, proud. I squared my shoulders, chin up, daring her to say another word.

"You... Move!"

She sputtered, hands shaking. With a frustrated cry, she shoved me hard, aiming to push me into the lake.

I sidestepped, but her sharp nails raked across my neck, leaving a crimson scratch.

The sting made my eyes water. I lifted a hand to my throat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood welling up.

I didn’t lose my temper; instead, I simply stepped aside.

I straightened my dress, shooting her a look that said she’d have to do better than that.

The next instant, Lillian let out a shriek.

Her heels slipped on the slick stones. The shrill sound echoed off the water, sending ripples through the night.

"Ah—!"

She seemed to slip, lost her balance, and tumbled into the lake.

There was a splash, water spraying in a wide arc. Gasps erupted behind me as her perfectly coiffed hair disappeared beneath the surface.

The area erupted in chaos as everyone rushed to save her.

Shouts and frantic footsteps filled the night. Some rushed to the water’s edge; others whipped out their phones, already recording.

No one noticed the faint smile at the corner of my lips.

I bit down on my lip to hide it, but victory tasted sweet—petty, maybe, but sweet all the same.