Chapter 3: Moonlight and Masks

“Uncle Whitmore,” Harper butted in, “where’s Harrison? Is he even coming?”

She leaned forward, her tone bordering on a whine. A couple guests traded knowing looks.

“Harrison had urgent business, he’ll be here soon,” Mr. Whitmore said, though his eyes lingered on me, smiling. “Last-minute change—hope you don’t mind.”

His words were smooth, but I could feel the calculation. He was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch at his son’s absence.

With the main guest missing, dinner turned to business.

Wine glasses clinked, and the conversation shifted to market shares and SEC filings. The air was thick with ambition and subtle power plays.

Dad grumbled about a new competitor—a homegrown brand with retro Americana vibes and high-end positioning. In just a few years, it had become a real threat, eating into our family’s market share.

He spoke with the frustration of a man watching his legacy slip away. The Whitmores listened politely, but I caught the glint of amusement in Harrison’s uncle’s eyes.

My phone buzzed silently in my purse.

I glanced down—unknown number, but the area code was familiar. My heart skipped. I excused myself, pulse pounding, nerves jangling.

I slipped out to the patio, grateful for the break from all the posturing.

The night air was cool, scented with fresh-cut grass and blooming hydrangeas. I hugged my arms around myself, breathing easier away from the stuffy formalities inside.

The club was a converted Gilded Age mansion, the grounds lush with boxwoods and winding brick paths.

Old magnolias arched over the walkways, their blossoms glowing in the moonlight. Laughter drifted from the terrace, mixing with the hum of cicadas.

Standing beneath a magnolia, I answered the call.

The petals brushed my cheek as I lifted the phone, their softness grounding me in the moment.

“Savannah, the design drafts for next season are ready.”

The voice was brisk, all business. I let a genuine smile slip through, my mask falling away for a heartbeat.

“Perfect.”

I let my voice drop, the Southern lilt creeping in as I relaxed. “Box them up and send them over. I’ll look them over tonight.”

I leaned against the rough trunk, feeling its strength at my back. My voice dropped an octave, the accent thickening in comfort.

“What’s the point of just reviewing? There’s still pattern making, fabric selection, samples… Savannah, why bother going back? Just break with them, for real.”

I plucked a magnolia blossom, spinning it between my fingers. “Not yet. I haven’t taken back what’s mine, and they haven’t paid what they owe.”