Casey & Kathleen
Be satisfied, Kathleen tells herself as she circles the pool, heading toward the gate. You said what needed to be said. Delivered the message loud and clear.
And yet, even now, she doubts it landed. Daphne doesn’t care. She never has. That’s always been the most maddening part—not the rebellion, but the complete absence of regret.
Kathleen remembers the shift. Freshman year. When that thing happened. The blankness that crept behind Daphne’s eyes.
Then came the friends—smug, self-obsessed girls with empty dreams of fame and a gnawing need for attention. Then the bad behavior, the publicity stunts, the social media. The mess. And the strange, fleeting notoriety that followed.
But it was never real fame. Not by Kathleen’s standards. Just noise. A blur of sponsored selfies, hashtags, and mid-tier party appearances someone, somewhere, apparently found interesting. Daphne became one of those influencer people, whatever that meant.
And the TV shows. God, the shows. Two of them. Both disasters. At the time, Kathleen had been horrified. But beneath that horror was something else. Relief. Because neither made it past their pilots, sparing the family the embarrassment.
There are mornings, more than Kathleen would ever admit, when she wishes Daphne hadn’t happened. And sometimes, more quietly, she wishes she could say that out loud.
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She does feel sorry for Daphne. It’s sad, watching someone drift so far from shore they forget how to swim. But Kathleen won’t carry the blame for that. I won’t. I can’t.
Then—a door swings open across the courtyard. A man steps out. Blonde. Handsome. A towel slung over one shoulder. Skin still damp from the shower. His swim trunks cling to his thighs, his body all clean lines and easy strength—youth, vanity, and just enough restraint to look effortless.
Kathleen pauses, lowering her shades just enough to watch. He stretches once, then dives, breaking clean through the surface, sunlight flashing on his back as he cuts through.
This man is a sight. She pivots, Manolos clicking against the tile, and retraces her steps toward the pool’s edge.
“Hello there,” she calls.
He pauses mid-lap, surfacing, slick with water as he blinks into the light.
Kathleen steps toward the edge, gaze sharpening with the effort to place him. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”
Casey squints up at her. Piece by piece, it clicks. “The charity golf event,” he says. “You were watching me tee off.”
She smiles as the pieces align. “Yes. I remember now. You had a marvelous swing. Westbrooke & Lyons, wasn’t it?”
“Was, indeed,” he says, climbing out of the pool. “I’m no longer with them. I’m… between firms.”
Her gaze drifts over him, following the trail of water down his chest, over his abdomen, the line of his legs. “Well then. My firm’s always looking for sharp minds. I’ll leave you my card.” She sets it on his towel with a practiced, delicate flick. “Monarch Capital. And your name was?”
“Casey. Casey Stoneman.”
“Good day to you, Casey.” Kathleen offers one last smile, then turns and hurries off, disappearing under the archway.
He reaches for his towel. Sees her card. Matte ivory, black embossed print. And then—her name. Of course. He knows exactly who she is.
He should toss it. Cozying up to Daphne’s mom would be insane—the act of a desperate man, flailing so hard he’d risk a bridge already in flames.
But he folds the card into the towel anyway. Turns his face to the sun’s reflection in the water. Then, without another thought, he dives back in.