Stepping out of the law offices onto the sidewalk, I breathe in the heavy humid air. Christ, this place is warm. Why had I never remembered the humidity? I peel off my suit jacket and slip my fingers into my tie knot and yank it loose. I keep going and use two hands to pull it undone and then undo the top two buttons of my shirt. I need to breathe. Why does it feel like there's no air?

Not allowed to leave? Those were the exact wishes expressed by my late grandfather. Mr. Ravenel looked totally embarrassed reading my grandfather's controlling missive from beyond the grave. The last will and testament was clear, the rest of the instructions would be given tomorrow after everyone had had a chance to absorb the fact that a man who, for all intents and purposes, didn't give two shits about me had made me his successor. And in doing so had pitted me against a family who already hated me.

I cast my gaze around for the black SUV with my driver just as it pulls up from a few feet away. The driver hops out and opens the back door so I can throw myself into the dark cool interior of the back seat.

"Trystan." Beau's voice stops me.

I turn to him. "Did you know?"

The minuscule flick of his eyes to the side and back to me tells me all I need to know, even as he says, "No."

"Bullshit."

"Truly. I had an idea. Something he said to me once. But no, I didn't know." He puts air quotes around the last word.

I stare at him a few minutes, his friendly eyes set in his tanned skin. "You get what you wanted?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

Beau nods, grimacing slightly. "Grandmother might contest it. She thought she was getting everything. Or at least that she and my father were."

"It's good to see you," I tell him. "But I don't want anything to do with this family. I hope she leaves you alone, but she won't need to contest my portion, I have no intention of keeping it."

"That's what she's hoping." Beau shakes his head. "I hope you reconsider. I'd hate for her to have the last word after all she's done to you."

"Removing myself as quickly and completely from this family is my only concern."

A fleeting look of hurt passes through Beau's expression as I say this.

"I—" He starts then clears his throat. "Never mind. See you tomorrow, I guess. Where are you staying?"

"I don't know. I told my assistant to cancel my room at The Planter's Inn earlier, but now I'll have to have her remake the reservation."

Beau frowns. "Good luck. The Spoleto Festival’s starting in a couple of days, there won't be a free bed in town."

"Hopefully, I'll be gone by then."

Beau's mouth straightens and then he nods. "See you, Trystan."

I watch him turn and walk away. No one else has come out of the offices yet. Isabel is probably already objecting.

My driver must have gotten back into the car while Beau and I talked. She climbs out again and reopens the back door.

Inside I'm enveloped in the cool blast of air conditioning, and I breathe deeply for what feels like the first time in several hours.

The driver climbs in the front seat. "Everything all right?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Where to?"

"Just stay here for now." I pull out Emmy's phone and call Dorothy.

"Mr. Montgomery, I've cancelled your hotel reservations and booked you on an eight o'clock flight to La Guardia." Her tone is as confident and reassuring as ever.

"Change of plans. Again. It looks like I may have to stay here a few days after all."

---

Dorothy manages to work her magic and books me two nights at the hotel. I get checked in and plug in my laptop, jumping onto the hotel Wi-Fi. I have a deluge of emails about the deal. I quickly take care of all the ones waiting for responses, mostly from the bankers doing their last-minute double checks and due diligence and a couple from Mac. Then I see one unread one from myself with the subject line a reply to my forwarded Airbnb email.

If no one ever hears from me again, this was my last known location.

I stare at it a few seconds then reread it. I try to think back to the text I got from Emmy earlier. I thought she was being dramatic. She could just as easily have been legitimately nervous.

I search the address. It's out toward Long Island. I shake my head and stop myself shy of checking crime statistics for the area. Why do I care? She is not my concern. I have enough going on, and now that I'm done dealing with work emails, the will and all the ramifications of it start ricocheting around in my head.

With that thought, I change into my workout gear and find the hotel gym. I spend the next ninety minutes overworking myself to sheer exhaustion in an attempt to quiet my mind. It doesn't work, and when I'm done I'm soaking with sweat, my lungs and heart are working overtime, and I'm filled with rage at Isabel Montgomery. Beau will be happy that I have, indeed, reconsidered. I won't be turning down my inheritance. Isabel can contest it if she wants to. What I will do, I think with cold resolve, is sell off the entire operation piece by piece and then walk away with the money.

I head back across the hotel courtyard, legs like jelly, and my body temperature finally matching the warm mugginess of downtown Charleston. The sun has set, but the heat remains. Lights have flickered on in the topical landscaping and the calming sound of trickling water comes from a fountain. The city has charm, I'll give it that.

I'm also filled with a bizarre sense of guilt that I've somehow misstepped. I think at first, it's to do with Beau. But then I realize it has nothing to do with my family and everything to do with Emmy. We'd been bantering earlier, had been . . . friendly. And then I all but yelled at her. I'll check in with her before I go to bed and make sure she's all right. I tell myself it's in my best interests to know where my phone is. My stomach chooses that moment to remind me I haven't eaten dinner, and I decide I'll call her under the guise of needing a restaurant recommendation.

As I take a hot shower, change and contemplate dinner, I find the silence of my evening disturbing, though not altogether unwelcome. If I had my phone it would be buzzing with texts and calls as it always does early evening in Manhattan with people looking to meet for drinks, dinner, or more. I’m rarely alone. And if I am, I usually rustle up a date from Tinder. Emmy's phone is silent. Even the calls from David have stopped. I wonder what she must be making of the incessant texts I receive in the evenings.

I scratch the back of my neck.

A quick glance tells me she has one dating app on her phone. I open it up and read the profile she put up there. The picture takes me by surprise. I remember her from this morning at the airport, or thought I did. I remember porcelain skin, wide eyes, gorgeous, wavy auburn hair. Girl next door maybe. Plain, but pretty too. What greets me is sooo not plain. Heavy eye makeup on eyes that look like they'd strike you dead, glossy red lips, hair straightened, a glass of champagne in her hand, and a black top or dress, I don't know. The picture is cut off around the waist. I see the photo is cropped from some kind of party. It's not that she's not beautiful, she is. Christ, she's stunning, it's like a punch in the gut. But the picture doesn't gel with the scattered girl in my mind's eye. The playful girl with the neurotic tendencies and the quick wit. Her comment earlier of seeming like a hooker looking for a commitment made me laugh out loud. Which was saying something considering I'd just left the meeting at the Ravenel Law Office. I tear my eyes away from the picture and scan her profile entries.

---

Name: Emmaline

Age: 28

Location: Charleston, SC

Looking for: Men

Things to know: Be real, I don't like bullshit.

---

My eyes widen. I can only imagine the type of guys she attracted with this profile. Even I feel a little intimidated by this version of Emmy. Weirdly turned on, but intimidated nonetheless. Maybe she's into being the boss in the bedroom. I shrug. I gave up trying to understand human nature a long time ago. The message folder is full, but she hasn't responded to any in over a year. For some reason that makes me feel good. She must have notifications turned off. I open one of the messages, and after three words, I shudder and close it. Gross. I open another. Jesus. Who are these guys? After several more my stomach feels sour, and I wonder how women survive out in the dating world. If this is my competition, no wonder I do so well getting dates.

I need to give her some pointers. At the very least she has to use a fake name. If even one of those perverts has stalkerish tendencies, she wouldn't be hard to find. I remember how readily she gave me her name and social earlier and shake my head. That open, sweet, funny girl I texted with on my way to the funeral would get a date no problem. Of course she'd probably be screwed over too.

That thought brings me back to her predicament today.

I can't put off calling anymore, so I dial my number. I must still not be recovered from my intense work out because my palms feel sweaty.