“Where have you been?” Wallis asked, still slightly tipsy, I realized, from the engagement-party champagne. “I’ve been here all weekend. Where have you been, Blake?”

As he drank amber liquid from a tumbler, his hand shook, though it might have been my imagination. “Didn’t I text you, yesterday?”

I felt a finger on my shoulder and turned, expecting Bo—I don’t know why—but the touch was soft, a woman. “Excuse me,” she said. A brunette. Maybe a dirty blonde. The light wasn’t great. “So sorry—can I just?” It was a demand, cloaked as a question, and I was scrunched aside. “Hello,” she said. To Blake, to the men, not to me, as she reclaimed her space.

“You said that things were busy,” Wallis went on, interrogating Blake. “But this?” She held both her hands out, palms up. “This doesn’t seem so busy.”

Melinda Darley’s chief of staff dropped his chin to his chest and chuckled. If I didn’t despise him before, I did now. Sweat dampened the back of my dress.

I studied Blake. He did not seem tired, he did not look like one tossed and turned by the waves of seasonal politics. His shirt was pressed. He wore a snappy belt, embroidered with mallards. He was clean-shaven.

Wallis scooped his unoccupied hand into hers. He stared at their intertwined fingers, started to speak, then stopped, composed himself, and began again. “Do you know Drew Porter?” He removed his hand from my sister’s and gestured to the man across from him. “Drew is my mom’s chief of staff. And this is Chris over here.” Blake cleared his throat. “Daisy, have you met Chris? He’s field director for my mom’s Low Country office. Keeping things locked up down here. Am I right, Chris? He used to work for Goode, when he was still in office. You might’ve met on the Hill then. No? But we can’t forget about Katie here. She’s head of philanthropy for our family foundation. Do you know Katie?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Katie,” I managed. She looked at me like this was my fault—not knowing her.

“Didn’t you get any of my texts today?” Wallis sounded wild, desperate. “Seriously, what is going on? We were supposed to see each other. You promised me we’d talk. You promised that you’d make these past weeks up to me!”

Blake gave her no reply. He finished his drink and placed it carefully on a high-top table behind him, then motioned to his friends, who did the same. Finally, to us, he said, “We’re going to head out. But it was great running into you both.”

“Wait,” Wallis said. “Wait.” She slapped a hand square on his chest, seized a fold of his shirt’s fabric. “Just wait, okay?”

“Wallis,” I said, fearing any second I would be forced to physically drag her off him.