Chapter 1

Faith

He's slumped against the oak like it's the only thing holding him upright, one hand pressed to his shoulder, deep red staining his white dress shirt. The April air is warm and soft, carrying the faint sweetness of Wisteria from somewhere nearby.

The smart thing would be to keep walking.

Instead, I'm kneeling in the dirt next to a bleeding stranger. “You're hurt,” I say, already pulling out my phone. “I'm calling 911.” As I start to dial, his hand shoots out and grabs me by the wrist.

“Don't.” The word comes out rough, urgent.

My pulse kicks up, but I force myself to meet his eyes. Something in his voice—desperation, not a threat—makes me hesitate. Desperation, I understand.

“You need a hospital,” I say.

His grip loosens slightly, but his eyes don't leave mine. “No police. No hospital.”

I should walk away. I should walk away. Instead, I hear myself say, “How bad is it?”

He lets go of my wrist, and his hand drops to his side like it's taking everything he has just to stay conscious. “Bad enough.”

I shift closer, peeling back the torn fabric of his shirt. The wound is deep, still bleeding steadily, but it looks like it missed the major arteries. As a medical student, I've seen enough to recognize a clean shot. This guy is lucky. Or maybe he's just that hard to kill.

“I need something to put pressure on this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I untie the silk scarf holding my silver hair back and press it against his shoulder. He hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away.

“What's your name?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

“Faith.” The answer comes automatically. I'm too focused on keeping pressure on the wound to think about whether I should be giving a stranger my name. “And you probably shouldn't be talking right now.”

“Faith,” he repeats, like he's committing it to memory. “I like that.”

It's dark and I can barely see him, and he's bleeding through my scarf. I have absolutely no business noticing his voice.

Which is exactly why I don't ask his name. Whatever mess he's in, I don't want to be more involved than I already am.

We stay like this for what feels like forever, but is probably only minutes. My hands are shaking from the pressure, slick with his blood. The metallic smell used to make me nauseous, but after volunteering at the hospital and two years of medical school, I’m past that.

Finally, the bleeding slows to a manageable seep. He's still pale, his breathing labored, but he's more alert than when I found him.

“My people are coming,” he says. “You should go before they get here.”

“Your people,” I repeat flatly, returning my eyes to his. Of course he has people. “And they couldn't have come sooner?”

Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. He reaches into his jacket—slowly, watching my reaction—and pulls out a card. Holds it out to me.

I take it, our fingers leaving smudges of his blood on the white cardstock. A black raven is embossed into the white card stock, wings spread wide. Beneath it, a phone number. Nothing else.

“Anything you need,” he says. “Anytime. One favor, no questions asked.”

“I don't need—”

His eyes lock on mine and something in my chest pulls taut. “Keep it.”

In the distance, I hear the low rumble of engines. Multiple vehicles, moving fast.

“Go,” he says.

I shove the card in my pocket, grab my ruined scarf, and stand.

“Get that looked at,” I say, knowing he likely has a private doctor on call.

“See you around... Faith.”

I scoff. “Don't bet on it.” I don't look back as I walk away, but I can feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner and disappear into the Charleston night.

The bathroom at Magnolias is all cream marble and gold fixtures. The kind of place designed to make you feel wealthy just for washing your hands. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door, giving myself thirty seconds to just breathe.

Dirt on my jeans. That's manageable. Dark stains under my fingernails. A smear of rust-brown across my palm. His blood. You don't spend that long with your hands in a wound and walk away clean.

Not that long ago, I was on my knees in Battery Park, covered in a stranger's blood. Now I'm about to sit down to dinner with my father like nothing happened. This is my life.

At the sink, I scrub my hands until the water runs clear...

I meet my own eyes in the mirror. I look pale, my pupils still dilated from the adrenaline. Not great, but I've looked worse.

Deep breath. Game face.

When I finally emerge, the hostess greets me with the kind of smile reserved for people whose last names open doors. “Miss Dalton, your father is already seated. Right this way.”

I follow her through the dining room, past tables of tourists and locals celebrating anniversaries or sealing business deals. Magnolias is one of those Charleston institutions—the kind of place my father loves because everyone knows him here, and he can hold court like the king he thinks he is.

Jack Dalton is at his usual table in the back corner, positioned so he can see everyone who comes and goes. He's not alone. A man I don't recognize sits across from him. Older, mid-fifties, expensive suit, the kind that whispers rather than shouts. Something in his smile makes my skin crawl before I've even reached the table.

Then I see Collette.

She sits next to him, practically glowing. She's dressed like she's just returned from a movie premiere—all silk and strategic cleavage—and she's wearing my mother's necklace. There's something different about her tonight. A smugness in the way she holds herself, like she's got a secret she's dying to share but won't. Not yet.

“Faith.” My father stands, and the stranger rises with him. Dad kisses my cheek, his hand briefly gripping my elbow as he guides me into my seat—the one between them. “You're late.”

“Lost track of time,” I lie, sliding into the chair.

He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he lets it go. “You look flushed. Everything alright?”

“Fine.” I reach for my water glass, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Just walked faster than I meant to.”

I catch Collette's fake smile. “Nice to see you, sis.”

I throw my own fake smile back at her. “You too.”

“Faith, I'd like you to meet Adam Trevino,” my father says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite place. Nervousness? “Adam, my daughter, Faith.”

“A pleasure.” Adam extends his hand across the table, and I take it. His grip is firm, possessive, lasting a beat too long. His thumb moves across the back of my hand, slow and deliberate. “Your father has told me so much about you...Faith.” As he's speaking, his eyes rake over me.

My name falling from this man's tongue makes me nauseous. I extract my hand and offer a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes. “Funny, he hasn't mentioned you at all.”

But I know the name, and the name is enough to know why my father insisted on this restaurant and why he's positioned himself where he can watch the door.

“Faith.” My father's voice is filled with a warning.

Adam smirks. “Jack. I always give a beautiful woman allowances.”

The air lightens just a fraction as a waiter arrives at our table and takes our order.

“Your father tells me you're a medical student at the College of Charleston. At twenty-four, you're top of your class. That you plan to pursue research,” Adam says. “What made you choose medicine?”

Watching my mother die?

“Curiosity,” I say, keeping my tone light. “And I'm good at it.”

“She's being modest,” my father interjects. “Faith has a gift. Always has. Even as a child, she was treating injured animals we'd find on our property.”

I don't mention that most of those animals had been hurt by my father's associates. Or that patching up strays was the only way I could feel like I had any control in a house where violence simmered.

“A healer,” Adam says, and the way he looks at me makes me want to shower. “That's a rare quality. Compassionate. Nurturing.”

Collette snorts softly into her wine glass.

Adam doesn't acknowledge it. “I imagine you'll make an excellent wife someday. A doctor in the family would be quite the asset.”

The word “wife” hangs in the air like a noose.

I reach for my water glass. “I'm not really the marrying type.”

“Faith,” my father says again, sharper this time.

“What?” I meet his eyes. “I'm being honest. Isn't honesty important in... whatever this is?”

Adam leans back in his chair, studying me with an expression that's equal parts amused and calculating. “Your father warned me you had a fiery spirit. I like that. Shows intelligence. Strength.”

“How lucky for me,” I say flatly.

The food arrives and we eat in tense silence. I push my shrimp and grits around my plate, my appetite gone. Collette keeps sneaking glances at me. She likely knows why we're here and is enjoying my discomfort.

Adam's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then stands. “If you'll excuse me, I need to take this. Business never sleeps.”

“Of course,” my father says, too quickly, too eagerly.

Adam's hand lands on my shoulder as he passes. It takes everything in me not to flinch. “Don't go anywhere,” he says, like he has any right to tell me what to do.

The moment he's out of earshot, I turn to my father. “What is this?”

“Lower your voice,” he hisses.

“Answer the question.”

Collette examines her nails, suddenly fascinated by her cuticles.

My father drains half his bourbon in one swallow. “Adam Trevino is a very powerful man in this city.”

“He's a loan shark who bought himself some legitimacy.”

My father's face begins to turn red. “He's a businessman who's made some very generous investments.”

“In you?”

His jaw tightens. “I made some decisions that didn't pan out. Adam was understanding. More understanding than most would be.”

Something cold moves through me. “How much?”

“That's not your concern.”

“It became my concern the moment you sat me down at this table with him.” My voice is rising despite my best efforts. “How much, Dad?”

“Two million,” Collette says quietly, still not looking at me. “Plus interest.”

I stare at her, then at my father. Panic dances at the edge of my mind. The company has been struggling for years. Everyone knows it. “Two million dollars?”

“I can't repay it,” he says, and for the first time I see real fear in his eyes. Not for me—for himself. “Not in cash. Adam has agreed to... alternative arrangements.”

“Alternative...” The room tilts. “No.”

“Faith—”

“No,” I whisper. “You can't be serious.”

Collette smirks. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t refused Marcus Beaumont last year, or the Whitmore boy before that—”

“Those men were twice my age!”

“Those men had money and connections.” She takes a sip of wine, perfectly composed. “But you had to be difficult.”

“Then you marry him,” I say, glaring at her.

Her smile widens, and there it is—the secret she’s been holding all night. “Me? Last night, Zane Wallace asked Dad for his blessing to marry me.”

Zane Wallace. Old Charleston money, connected to half the city’s elite. Of course. It doesn’t surprise me that he wants my younger sister. She’s beautiful. Rotten to the core, but beautiful.

She holds up her left hand, and I see it now: a diamond ring, tasteful but expensive, catching the light.

Then her other hand rises to touch the necklace at her throat. She's making sure I'm watching. She always does.

The delicate platinum chain with the three small diamonds—one for faith, one for hope, one for love. Mom wore it every day. Made me promise, when I was twelve and she was dying, that I’d wear it on my wedding day.

“It’ll be yours,” she’d whispered, her fingers weak around mine. “Something of me with you when you marry.”

Jack gave it to Collette on her sixteenth birthday. She'd blamed me for something. Jack believed her. He always did.

“It suits her better,” he’d said when I asked why. “Collette appreciates beautiful things.”

“I was thinking I’d wear this,” Collette says, fingers still resting on it. “Since it’ll be such a special occasion. Your mother would have wanted that, don’t you think?”

She has everything that was supposed to be mine.

My father beams at her with a warmth I haven't seen directed at me in years. Maybe ever. I could cure cancer and he'd still look at her like that. “We’re very happy for her.”

“How nice for you both,” I manage, my voice firm.

Collette's smile is saccharine. “Marrying for love is such a luxury, isn't it? But you wouldn't want to disappoint Dad, would you? Not when the family needs you.”

She knows exactly what she's doing. She's always known how to weaponize my desperation for our father's approval, the way I've spent my whole life chasing scraps of affection he gives her freely.

“The family needs me?” I laugh, sharp and humorless. The last sliver of hope drains from me. “When has this family ever needed me for anything other than cleaning up his messes?”

“That's enough,” my father snaps.

“No, it's not.” I grab my purse, preparing to bolt. “I'm not doing this. Find another way to pay your debt.”

“There is no other way.” His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. The same wrist the stranger grabbed earlier, and I'm suddenly, viscerally reminded that I've already had one dangerous man touch me tonight. “You've got a week to come to terms with this. You are marrying him.”

“You can't force me.”

Serenity takes the place of the fear. That ruthlessness that put him on top. “You think you're in medical school because you got there on your own? I gave you this cushy life. Your apartment is in my name. Your scholarships are because of my connections. You think just because your mom set aside that money for you that I can’t take it back? Your food, your clothes, your life. I gave all of them to you, and I can just as easily take them away. You'll have nothing. No degree, no future, no family.”

No family.

Even now, even after everything, some pathetic part of me still wants him to choose me. To see me the way he sees Collette.

But he never will.

I'm still staring at my father when Adam's voice cuts through the tension. “Everything alright?” he asks. His eyes move between the three of us. He knows I'm rebelling and choosing to ignore it.

“Perfect,” my father says. “Just discussing the details.”

Adam looks at me. “And what do you say, Faith? Your father has made me a very compelling offer. I'd like to hear your thoughts.”

And I think about the stranger bleeding in Battery Park, the way he looked at me like I was something worth remembering.

Anything you need. Anytime. One favor, no questions asked.

My fingers itch to pull it out right now… but a sliver of doubt makes me hesitate. Marriage isn't a small thing no matter how grand the promise. That's if I can trust him.

“I need time,” I hear myself say. “To think about it.”

Adam smiles. “Of course.” He glances at my father. “You have until Sunday.”

A week.

“Sunday,” I repeat numbly.

“I look forward to your answer.” Adam extends his hand again. This time I don't take it.

I walk out of Magnolias without another word, into the warm Charleston night. My hands are shaking from rage or fear or both; I can't tell.

I walk for blocks, no destination in mind, just needing to move.

By the time I stop, leaning against a brick wall in a quieter part of the district, the streets have thinned and my breathing has finally steadied.

For a split second, I consider calling in the stranger's favor.

No. I shove the thought away and head home.

I need to find a way out of this myself.

Three days, that's how long it takes me to exhaust every option, chase every dead end, and arrive at the conclusion I'd been avoiding since I walked out of Magnolias.

***

The first day, I'm practical about it.

I pull up my banking app before I've even taken my coat off. Student account, savings, the emergency fund I've been building since I started med school—scraping together every tutoring payment and skipped dinner. Combined, it's just under nine thousand dollars. I stare at it for a long time. Two point three million. Nine thousand dollars. The math isn't even cruel. It's just absurd.

I close the app and open my laptop.

Legal routes next. I spend four hours reading about debt liability, coercion, and whether a parent can legally obligate an adult child to a financial agreement they never signed. The answer is no, technically. But "technically" assumes I have a lawyer, time, and the ability to survive the fallout while the courts move at their own pace. Adam Trevino didn't get where he is by being stopped by technicalities.

I close the laptop at midnight and tell myself tomorrow will be more productive.

The second day, I call in every favor I can think of. A professor who once offered to write me any recommendation I needed. A pre-med advisor with connections to hospital administrators across the state. A classmate whose father is a state senator. I don't tell any of them the truth—I can't—so I talk around it in circles and accomplish nothing except feeling humiliated in three separate phone calls.

I eat cereal for dinner and don't taste it.

The third day, I just sit with it.

Now, in the quiet of my apartment with nowhere left to run, it settles over me like a cage. He looked at me across that table and saw a transaction. Not a daughter. Not a person who might be frightened or angry or desperate. Just a liability he could convert to an asset.

That afternoon, a white box arrives at my apartment with no return address. Inside is a dress in my size and a note in Adam Trevino’s neat handwriting.

For Sunday.

I stand there for a long time, staring at those two words, and something cold and final slides into place. He isn’t waiting for my answer. He’s preparing for it.

The card is on my kitchen counter. I put it there when I got home so I'd stop reaching for it in my pocket.

I've looked at it approximately one hundred times in three days.

I pick it up on the third night and stand here under the kitchen light, turning it over in my fingers. The raven embossed in black. The phone number. Nothing else.

Anything you need. Anytime. One favor, no questions asked.

He said it like it cost him nothing. Like favors were something he handed out the way other people hand out business cards. Maybe they are, for a man like that. Maybe this means nothing to him, and he won't even remember my name when I call.

Maybe I'm about to make everything worse.

I stand here long enough that my feet go cold against the kitchen tile.

Then I walk outside, because I need the night air. I need to feel like I'm choosing this, not cornered into it.

One favor, no questions asked.

I pull out my phone. My hands shake as I dial. It rings once. Twice.

“Hello, Faith.” His voice is rough but stronger than it was three nights ago. Like he's been expecting this call. Like he knew I'd use the card.

Maybe he did.

“I need a favor,” I say.

A pause. Then: “I'm listening.”