Chapter 7 - The Return to CharlestonThree days later, the gray skies of Charleston wept a steady, miserable drizzle over the historic St. Philip’s churchyard.
Beneath a black canopy, a small group of people stood around a polished mahogany casket. There were no four hundred socialites. There were no celebrity chefs, no champagne fountains, and no glittering chandeliers.
There was only Daniel, clutching a single white rose; a handful of elderly neighbors from North Charleston; Amara, dressed in a simple black dress that had belonged to her mother; and standing quietly a few paces back, wearing a black wool overcoat and holding a black umbrella, was Everett Hale.
When the pastor finished the final prayer, Amara stepped forward, dropped a single white rose onto her mother’s casket, and closed her eyes.
As the mourners began to disperse toward the exit gates, Everett stepped forward, holding his umbrella over her head to shield her from the persistent rain.
"You didn't have to fly back with us on the private jet, Everett," Amara said softly, her breath pluming in the damp air as she turned to face him.
"I told you I was coming," Everett replied, his dark eyes warm and steady. "And I keep my promises."
Suddenly, the sharp, jarring crunch of gravel interrupted the quiet sanctity of the churchyard.
Amara turned.
Stomping down the gravel path, ignoring the mud splashing against her designer shoes, was Camille Sterling.
She wasn't wearing sweatpants anymore. She wore a furious, glittering red coat that screamed for attention, her face twisted into an ugly mask of pure venom.
"Well, well, well," Camille sneered, clapping her hands mockingly as she stopped ten feet away from them. "Look at this pathetic little scene. A pauper's funeral for a cleaning woman, attended by a billionaire who lost his mind over a piece of paper."
Daniel stepped forward instantly, his fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed with sudden rage. "Get out of here. You have no right to be here."
"Oh, shut up, college boy," Camille snapped, dismissing Daniel with a flick of her manicured wrist. She turned her venomous gaze directly onto Everett. "And you, Everett? You think you're some kind of white knight rescuing the damsel in distress? Do you have any idea what my father is doing right now?"
Everett didn't flinch. He didn't even step closer. He simply looked at Camille with a cold, detached pity.
"Your father is currently facing federal wire fraud indictments and civil forfeiture hearings for his predatory lending portfolio, Camille," Everett said calmly. "His assets are frozen. His social club memberships have been revoked. By next week, he'll be bankrupt."
Camille’s face contorted into absolute fury. "You ruined us! Over her?! You threw away a three-year engagement, a hundred-thousand-dollar wedding, and fifty years of high-society pedigree for a girl who wipes your kitchen counters?!"
"Yes," Everett said simply.
The single word hung in the damp Charleston air like a falling blade.
May you like
Camille stared at him, her chest heaving, realizing for the first time that no amount of screaming, crying, or social pressure would ever bring him back. He was gone—completely, irrevocably gone.
With a choked sob of pure rage, Camille turned on her heel and sprinted back down the gravel path, her red coat vanishing into the gray mist.
