Chapter Text
The country club sprawled along the southern coastline like something carefully placed rather than built, its white stone and dark wood accents standing in quiet contrast to the deep green of the manicured grounds. The air was crisp in a way the South rarely allowed, cool enough to raise a faint prickle along the skin, yet free of the usual weight of humidity. It carried the clean, mineral scent of impending rain, sharp and fresh, drifting in from the horizon where a shelf of dark clouds rested low and patient over the sea.
Beyond the broad windows, the yard stretched wide and immaculate, the grass trimmed to a soft, rolling carpet that caught the last of the daylight. The wind moved through it in gentle waves, a steady breeze that rustled the palmettos and set the flags along the golf course whispering to one another. Far off, the ocean reflected the bruised purples and grays of the sky, its surface restless but not yet wild, as if holding its breath alongside the land.
Inside, the country club glowed warmly, amber light spilling out through glass and archways and washing across the lawn like an invitation. It softened the coming storm, turning the chill air comforting rather than cold, and cast long, golden shadows that swayed with the breeze. The contrast—warmth against gathering darkness, calm against the promise of rain—made the moment feel suspended, as though the world itself had paused just before the first drop fell.
Ziggy and her family were a day early, all thanks to Keith, the current owner of Ford. He was a very old man, probably in his seventies or closer to his eighties. Ziggy’s mother and father shook hands with him before stepping aside to let Ziggy greet herself. “Ziggy, sir. The head of Toyota.” She said, giving his hand a small squeeze of acknowledgment. They were currently standing on the steps of the country club. Keith’s wife, Summer, sat in a rocking chair near the porch railing. The couple were obviously enjoying the weather and getting away from the ‘party’ inside. Ziggy gave Summer a polite half-smile. “Evening ma’am.” She said to her. Summer nodded her head. “Hello dear…” She cooed back.
“My boy, Dennis, is inside. He’s most likely with his friends.” Keith said, looking from Summer back to Ziggy. “He’s blondish, and has a very…boisterous personality.” He added. Ziggy nodded and looked to her parents before heading inside.
The music nearly peeled her skin off. It was so loud and…Awful. Maybe peeling her skin off was a better alternative. She looked among the people around the room, being one of the tallest people there. She noticed a lady that looked a lot like Summer. ‘She must be her daughter.’ Ziggy thought as she crossed the room. The party inside the country club was already in full swing when Ziggy found herself face-to-face with Cassandra. Warm light spilled from crystal fixtures and wide windows, washing over polished floors and well-dressed guests, while the distant rumble of conversation and music blended with the low murmur of wind outside. Cassandra stood out effortlessly—sharp, stylish, every detail of her outfit deliberate, like she belonged exactly where she was.
Ziggy asked after Dennis, glancing around the room as if she might spot him weaving through the crowd. Cassandra’s expression flickered, a hand lifting toward her mouth as she fought back a laugh. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, the kind that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on.
“Oh, he’s probably busy,” she said lightly, her voice smooth and unapologetic. “If I had to guess? He’s probably getting his ass plowed into.” The words landed with casual cruelty, punctuated by a faint smirk, as the party hummed on around them, blissfully unaware. Ziggy didn’t flinch. If anything, her expression flattened, unimpressed rather than shocked, as if Cassandra had just made a joke that missed its mark. She exhaled through her nose and glanced past her at the crowd, irritation creeping in. “Right,” she said, tone dry. “So… where is he, actually?” It was clear she hadn’t come here for games, and Cassandra’s theatrics weren’t helping.
For a moment, Ziggy watched her more closely—the easy confidence, the way she held herself like she enjoyed being just a little unhelpful. Cassandra didn’t look like someone scrambling for a lie. There was no hesitation, no backpedaling, just that faint, knowing amusement tugging at her mouth.
The annoyance softened into reluctant realization. Ziggy tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as it clicked into place. Cassandra probably wasn’t exaggerating. She let out a short breath, half a scoff, half a sigh, accepting the answer she hadn’t wanted. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
Just as the realization settled in, movement upstairs caught Ziggy’s eye. Dennis came stumbling out of one of the rooms, his presence unmistakable—tailored, expensive, every inch the rich boy counterpart to Cassandra’s polished elegance. Only now, he was disheveled. His hair was mussed, his shirt slightly askew, and vivid lipstick prints bloomed across his collar and cheek like careless signatures. His face burned red as he paused, blinking against the lights and the sudden audience.
He barely had time to collect himself before the woman he’d just been with drifted past him, laughter smooth and unbothered as silk. She didn’t look back. Dennis watched her go with something between awe and embarrassment written plainly across his face, swallowing hard as if unsure which emotion won out.
He cleared his throat, shoulders squaring a fraction too late. A man swept by then, close enough to steal a few gentle kisses along Dennis’s jaw and down his neck—soft, familiar, unashamed—before continuing down the hall and disappearing into the party. Dennis stood there for a beat longer, flushed and flustered, while below, Cassandra’s smirk deepened and Ziggy finally got the confirmation she hadn’t wanted but absolutely believed.
Dennis seemed to realize all at once just how exposed he was. His ears burned, his hand flying up to his collar as he muttered something under his breath, before he ducked quickly back into the room he’d emerged from, the door shutting with more urgency than grace. Whatever composure he’d had left was clearly reserved for after he cleaned himself up.
Ziggy felt a presence at her side as her assistant, Cole, stepped into place with practiced ease. He looked immaculate in his tailored blue suit, the fabric crisp and sharp, the Nissan symbol set cleanly against his chest like a quiet declaration. He opened his mouth to speak, already slipping into his role.
Ziggy didn’t slow. Her attention was fixed on the staircase as she started toward it, heels clicking with intent. “Not now, Cole,” she said, dismissive but not unkind. “Find something to do.” She was already halfway to the stairs, leaving Cole to fall back. Cole lingered where Ziggy had left him, irritation tightening his jaw. He’d chosen the blue suit deliberately—tailored just the way she liked, pressed to perfection—hoping, stupidly, that she’d notice. He always noticed her. Every shift of her mood, every sharp turn of her attention that never quite landed on him. Being dismissed so easily stung more than he let show, especially when it came with that familiar ache of wanting something he knew better than to ask for.
His fingers flexed at his sides as he watched her climb the stairs, already gone, already focused on Dennis. Cole swallowed the thought that rose uninvited—that if she ever looked at him the way she looked at other people, he’d give her everything without hesitation. Instead, he straightened his jacket, schooling his expression back into calm professionalism, the role he wore as naturally as the suit.
Cassandra noticed immediately. She always did. Cole’s irritation sat just beneath the surface—too controlled to be obvious, too sharp to be nothing—and it caught her eye as easily as a bad stitch on a couture seam. She tracked his gaze up the stairs, followed the line of his attention, and found Ziggy disappearing from view.
Her lips curved, slow and knowing. Blue suit, tailored within an inch of its life, the Nissan symbol placed just so—intentional, not accidental. Cassandra took in the details the way she took in fashion: with precision. Desire worn as discipline was still desire.
She stepped closer, close enough that her presence was felt before it was acknowledged. “Careful,” she murmured lightly, voice smooth as satin. “Frustration wrinkles faster than linen.” Her eyes flicked up the staircase once more before returning to him. “And trust me—she doesn’t see the effort until it’s already too late. She is here for business. Not this silly party. So get your g-string out of a twist.”
Cole glared at her, and disappeared into the crowd.