Clients trusted me because I didn’t oversell. I didn’t promise miracles. I promised strategy rooted in reality. My firm grew into a small team—people who valued competence over charm.
I built a life that didn’t require approval from Charleston’s elite circles. I still moved through the city, but I stopped caring whether I was invited to every gala.
I cared about mornings on my porch, coffee in hand, the ocean doing what it always did: coming back.
One afternoon in late summer 2026, Dela Fairchild called.
“The story’s not dead,” she warned. “Victoria’s supporters are trying to spin her as a scapegoat. There’s chatter online.”
I wasn’t surprised. People loved redemption arcs, even for villains, especially when it let them feel compassionate without doing any real work.
“What do you need from me?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Dela said. “Just letting you know. Also—there’s something else.”
I waited.
“There’s a women’s cancer research fund looking for a major donor partner,” she said. “They’re based in South Carolina, but they’re expanding. They want someone local who understands visibility and legitimacy.”
My hand tightened around my phone. “Why are you telling me?”