The Ghost (Dominion Hall #7)

Chapter 1

PORTIA

T he gate opened without a word.

No voice over the intercom. No key code required. Just a slow, deliberate swing of black iron like someone inside had been watching me the whole time.

Dominion Hall didn’t announce itself. It didn’t have to. The house rose above the Charleston Harbor like it belonged to another world—stone, shadowed, still. The kind of place that made you instinctively lower your voice and straighten your spine.

I pulled my car up the drive, every curve manicured to perfection, the landscape engineered to feel effortless.

It reminded me of the first time I had driven past Swan House in Atlanta—how the symmetry and stonework had made my chest tighten, how I couldn’t decide if I was inspired or intimidated.

Back then, I’d just arrived in the city with a thrifted blazer and a spreadsheet full of dreams. I hadn’t belonged there. But I’d learned to fake it.

Now, I looked like I belonged anywhere I wanted to be.

My reflection stared back at me in the rearview mirror—tall, lean, and composed, every line intentional.

Long legs in a high-waisted floral-print skirt, a crisp white blouse tucked just right, gold hoops peeking from beneath a sleek twist of curls.

Skin like caramel cream lit by the morning sun.

Neutral nails. Barely-there makeup. I knew how to project elegance without trying too hard.

And I’d learned—very early—that walking into rooms like this meant being sharper than the people inside them.

I parked, smoothed the front of my blouse, and gave myself one last look in the mirror.

You’ve done worse. You’ve done bigger. Deep breath. Shoulders back.

Six weddings. One month. Seven brothers who allegedly didn’t believe in giving up control. Six of them getting married.

This would be fun.

I stepped out into the quiet. No valet, no greeting party. Just the creak of the front door opening as I reached the steps and a man in a suit.

“Ms. Lane?” he asked, already turning to lead me inside.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Teddy. The family is waiting.”

I followed him through the kind of foyer that demanded silence. High ceilings. Heavy oil paintings. Hardwood floors that had probably seen blood and bourbon in equal measure. There was no music. No conversation.

Just the quiet hush of wealth that didn’t feel the need to explain itself.

The room he led me to had twelve-foot ceilings and one long table where six very large men and six beautiful women were waiting.

This was either the beginning of a planning meeting or a coup.

“Gentlemen,” the man said. “Your planner.”

Twelve pairs of eyes turned to me. None of them looked particularly impressed.

“Hi,” I said, forcing a smile.

The woman closest to me—dark-haired, killer cheekbones—stood and extended a hand.

“Isabel,” she said. “I’m marrying Ryker. Don’t let his face scare you. That’s just how it looks.”

There was a low grunt from the man next to her. Dark hair, hard jaw. Definitely not smiling.

“Portia Lane,” I said. “Pleasure.”

The rest of the intros came quick: Claire and Marcus. Anna and Atlas. Hallie Mae and Noah. Vivienne and Elias. Sloane and Charlie.

Maybe it was my imagination, but each man seemed more intense than the last.

I’d done celebrity weddings. Multi-million-dollar productions. Reality TV nightmares. But nothing prepared me for what it felt like to stand at the head of a room full of former soldiers who looked like they were already calculating backup plans in case I failed.

“I’ve read all your intake forms,” I said, flipping open my tablet. “Let me start by saying it’s incredibly ambitious to plan six weddings in a month. But it’s not impossible. With the right support, the right structure?—”

“Let me guess,” Marcus interrupted. “Spreadsheets?”

Claire elbowed him. “She means professionalism. Try it sometime.”

“I’ll need participation from everyone,” I continued. “I know you all have schedules and obligations, but if we want this to feel cohesive?—”

“Hard pass,” Noah said. “We’re letting the women handle it.”

Of course.

I’d heard it a thousand times. Grooms shrugging off the most important day of their partner’s life like it was a car wash appointment.

And every time, it hit the same nerve. I wasn’t just here to fluff napkins and admire floral arches—I built timelines tighter than missile strike ops, managed vendors who cried in walk-ins, and coordinated million-dollar logistics while smiling through it all.

So when a man dismissed all that with a lazy we’re letting the women handle it ?

In my head, I was already stabbing a tiny fondant groom with a gold-plated cake knife.

“That’s not going to happen,” Hallie Mae said, sugar-sweet but deadly.

Anna crossed her arms. “We’re not walking down the aisle solo while you morons sneak off to drink bourbon and play with explosives.”

“I’m not playing,” Charlie said with a smirk. “I take explosives very seriously.”

“Which is why we’re involved,” Sloane said, flipping her hair. “You can’t be trusted not to blow something up just for the photo op.”

None of the men flinched. Not even a little. They just sat there—broad shoulders, bigger egos—like I’d walked into a security briefing, not six wedding consultations.

Marcus had his feet propped on the edge of the table like he was waiting for someone to pass him a cigar.

Noah was leaning back, arms crossed, wearing an expression that said this was a courtesy, not a necessity.

Elias didn’t even look up from his phone, which I was pretty sure he’d been coding on since I arrived.

Charlie was doing that half-smirk thing men do when they’re only pretending to listen.

Ryker glanced out the window at the harbor like he had a boat to catch.

Not one of them seemed remotely interested in discussing color palettes, seating charts, or guest logistics.

This wasn’t disinterest. It was a coordinated display of collective male dismissal.

They were outnumbered, technically—but you wouldn’t know it from the energy in the room.

It was the kind of patriarchal theater I’d seen so often.

Big men, bigger silences. Letting their fiancées carry the emotional load while they coasted until the tux fitting.

I was going to kill them. Or at least make them suffer through floral mock-ups until they begged for mercy. It was the least I could do for these lovely ladies.

But that wasn’t the professional response.

No, the professional response was to smile, nod, and weaponize my clipboard like the strategic document it was.

I’d dealt with men like this before—the kind who thought weddings were a feminine nuisance, a frivolous afterthought that didn’t require their input unless something caught fire or blocked the view of the whiskey bar.

Usually, I let them spiral until their own fiancée took them out back and recalibrated their expectations.

But this? This was six former special-ops alphas who operated their own private military.

They weren’t just disinterested—they were united in their resistance.

Subtle glances passed between them like a silent brotherhood briefing had already been held in another room.

The consensus was clear: We don’t need to be involved.

We’ve already won. We showed up. That’s enough.

It made my eye twitch.

I could feel their confidence like a weight in the room—grounded, immovable, smug.

The women beside them were engaged and opinionated, smart and stylish, and clearly used to keeping their men in check.

But even they seemed a little exasperated, like this had been the subject of more than one argument behind closed doors.

I considered my options.

I could go full drill sergeant and shame them into participating—break them down and rebuild them like boot camp, wedding edition.

But that would only work if they cared what I thought, and so far, they didn’t.

I could appeal to logic and legacy: talk about how these weddings would be documented forever, immortalized in glossy photos and edited videos their children would one day study like wartime footage.

But men like this didn’t respond to that either. They responded to challenge.

Which meant I needed to stop trying to include them and try a different tactic.

I cleared my throat, thinking carefully about what to do next.

Atlas hadn’t said anything yet, but suddenly, he stood—easily the largest of them all, beard trimmed, sleeves rolled. He looked like a man who’d once disarmed bombs with his bare hands and didn’t think it was worth mentioning.

“We show up,” he said simply. “We do our part. That’s what we promised.”

Thank God.

There was a beat of silence, then Marcus leaned forward with a grin.

“Well, if I’m doing my part, I want to parachute in. Full wingsuit. Red smoke. Claire can arrive on a horse or something.”

“No horse,” Claire said flatly.

“Boat?” Ryker offered. “I’ll come in from the water. Raider craft. Maybe tie in Fort Sumter, do something historical.”

“Yorktown’s an option,” Elias said, already pulling something up on his phone. “You can rent deck space.”

I blinked. “You want to enter your weddings like a coordinated military operation?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Marcus said with a grin.

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

The guys nodded, their expressions animated now. They were serious.

I took a breath. “Okay. So … large-scale entrances. Possible maritime permits. Sky coordination. This is doable, but I need commitment?—”

“I don’t commit,” a voice said from the doorway.

The shift in the room was immediate. Like a glass of water had just cracked in someone’s hand.

I turned.

He stood with one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, black t-shirt pulled across muscle and tension so tightly it could’ve been stitched in place.

He didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t soften.

Just watched me with eyes the color of ash after a fire—still hot underneath, but the damage already done.

Silas Dane.

The seventh. The one not getting married.

The one who hadn’t said a word because he hadn’t needed to.

He looked like he hadn’t spoken to a soul in weeks and didn’t miss it. Like the only thing keeping him in the room was his own decision not to walk away.

And still— still —I felt it.

That sharp, unnerving pull that made my lungs forget what they were doing.

Not now.

Not him.

Not this.

“Not a fan of weddings?” I asked, keeping my tone light, casual, immune to the way his presence made everything feel too still.

His mouth twitched, like I’d amused him. Barely. “I don’t believe in fairy tales. And I don’t dress up for traditions that don’t mean anything.”

“Good news,” I said, flipping to a blank page on my tablet. “You can keep your armor. I don’t plan fairy tales. I plan events. Logistics. Schedules.”

Silas pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room, and I could feel every inch of it. He didn’t move like a man used to attention. He moved like a shadow that had chosen to materialize.

For some reason, he’d chosen now.

“That’s cute,” he said quietly. “But you’re selling stories. Just dressed up in white.”

I opened my mouth to argue—and then stopped.

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

And because I suddenly couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say.

I hated men like him. The quiet ones. The sure ones. The kind that didn’t bluff, didn’t apologize, and didn’t need to raise their voice to make a woman forget why she was in the room.

I hated the way he looked at me like he already knew I didn’t believe in marriage either. Like he’d smelled it on me the moment I walked through the door.

I hated that I wanted to know what he’d say next.

“I’m here for the coffee,” he added, walking past me without another glance. “Don’t mind me.”

But I did.

God, help me —I did.