Page 1 of The Medic
1
SLOANE
Charleston air was not meant for women like me.
It clung to my skin—thick, wet, and reeking of things I didn’t care to understand. Sweat trickled down the back of my silk blouse, making the fabric stick in all the wrong places. This was Fendi, not Columbia Sportswear. My sandals were Italian. My patience? Nonexistent.
Which was ironic, I guess. Considering I was born here.
Charleston was home, technically. Daddy’s estate sat just past the marsh, all wraparound porches and generational wealth, and I’d spent my childhood riding ponies, taking French, and learning which fork to use at charity luncheons. But somewhere along the way—maybe during my third spring break in Monaco—I’d decided I was more Palm Beach than palmettos. I still came back. For events. For appearances. For Momma and Daddy.
But every time I stepped outside, the humidity reminded me why I left.
“Where is he?” I hissed into the phone, glaring at the tarmac through oversized Céline sunglasses. “Do you see a black Escalade with diplomatic plates?”
My driver, Foster, had one job: pick me up at the hangar. Not Charleston International like the peasants. I’d flown in on a Gulfstream—private, of course. Daddy’s jet, not mine. I was technically between aircraft at the moment.
Which was honestly fine. I had other things going on. My agent was hounding me about the resortwear collab I’d soft-launched on Instagram, and the brand I was supposed to be “ambassadoring” for in St. Barts wanted a content refresh. Not that they’d actually given me any creative direction—just vibes and a twelve-page deck on "elevated coastal escapism." Whatever.
People didn’t follow me because I followed rules. They followed me because I was me. Sloane Carrington. I was a lifestyle. A mood. Carefully calibrated effortless elegance.
Yes, I was a trust fund baby. No, I didn’t apologize for it.
Not when I’d spent the last three years turning champagne brunches and yacht selfies into a brand deal pipeline. Was it as hard as med school or whatever? Obviously not. But it took work to look this carefree. People had no idea how exhausting curated spontaneity could be.
I pressed the phone harder to my ear. “Foster, if you’re lost again, I swear?—”
“Miss Carrington,” came his voice, far too calm for the chaos he’d apparently created. “I’m in the vehicle. I had to circle. They changed the security checkpoint location without notice.”
“That’s not my problem,” I snapped. “You were supposed to be waiting. I don’t do curbside confusion. I do exits. Carpet. Coordination.”
A pause. “Understood. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m in the black SUV. Look for the red tag on the mirror.”
“I shouldn’t have to look for anything,” I muttered.
Another pause. Then, with maddening patience: “Yes, ma’am.”
I pulled the phone away and exhaled hard through my nose, already dreading the smug apology I’d get when he finally arrived.
Daddy was always lecturing me about how “employees are the lifeblood of a well-run empire.”Treat them with respect, Sloane. Learn their names. Remember their kids’ birthdays.
And I tried, I really did. But there was only so much grace to go around when people kept making mistakes.
My father built his fortune the old-fashioned way: inherited capital, offshore holdings, and a killer instinct for high-stakes real estate. Charleston, Palm Beach, the Caymans—if it was coastal and tax-sheltered, he owned a piece of it. He made deals over bourbon and backgammon and expected everyone beneath him to run like clockwork.
I’d grown up watching him fire executives with a nod, charm governors at dinner, and tell me—gently but firmly—that the Carrington name came with expectations.
So yes, I was spoiled. But I was also effective.
Usually.
A throaty chuckle made my spine stiffen.
I turned slowly.
There, crouched under the nose of a silver single-prop plane, was a man. A man. Worn cargo pants, a dark gray t-shirt, grease-stained hands. The sleeves were shoved up his forearms, and muscles I had no business noticing flexed with every movement.
He had no right looking that good doing manual labor.
