The Viper (Dominion Hall #11)

Chapter 1

LEXI

The driver’s GPS announced we’d arrived, though I would’ve known without the robotic voice. The air itself changed—thicker, sweeter, carrying a whisper of salt from the marsh. Spanish moss hung like tinsel from the oaks, and the sun glowed gold against the water beyond the dock.

My new home. At least for the next few months.

“James Island,” the driver said, climbing out to grab my bags. His accent curled softly at the edges—Lowcountry music I was learning to hear. “You’ll like it here. Quiet, but close to everything.”

Quiet sounded good. Quiet wasn’t something I usually had.

The house was a pale, weathered blue with a wide porch and white columns that leaned just enough to make it look charming instead of haunted. I stepped out of the car and drew a deep breath.

Los Angeles had its own kind of beauty, I supposed—sharp and sterile, made of glass and light. But Charleston felt alive. Old and watchful.

A cicada screamed from the trees, then another answered, the sound ricocheting through the humidity. My long, blonde hair clung to the back of my neck, and I knew within an hour it would swell into something my stylist would call a “situation.” I smiled, anyway.

“Want me to bring these inside?” the driver asked, hoisting one of my suitcases.

“Yes, please. Just by the entry’s perfect.”

He nodded and carried the luggage up the steps. I followed with the smaller bags, my shoes creaking against the wood.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and salt air—like the sea itself had scrubbed the floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the marsh, where egrets stood still as marble statues among the reeds.

It was all too beautiful, almost cinematic. But then again, maybe that was just how I’d learned to see the world—through invisible camera lenses, always composing shots.

Hannah was already there, of course. My sister-slash-assistant-slash-babysitter. She stood at the kitchen island with her tablet, organizing the week’s schedule like a general preparing for battle.

“There you are,” she said without looking up. “How was the flight?”

“Private,” I teased, setting my purse down. “Yours?”

That earned me a faint smile. “Uneventful. Which is exactly how I like them.”

Hannah was three years younger but carried herself like an older sibling—poised, organized, perpetually unimpressed. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot, and her black linen dress made her look like she’d stepped out of a minimalist Pinterest board.

Meanwhile, I was still wearing sunglasses inside. Some habits die hard.

“Everything’s set up,” she said, tapping her tablet. “Your wardrobe delivery comes tomorrow, security detail meets with production at nine, and your first table read’s Monday morning.”

“Perfect.” I crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting in the far-off rumble of a boat motor. “It’s gorgeous here.”

“It’s humid,” she corrected.

“Humid can be gorgeous.”

Hannah arched an eyebrow. “So can rattlesnakes.”

“Fair point.” I laughed and leaned on the windowsill. A heron lifted off from the marsh, its wings slicing through the orange dusk. “Still. It feels … different. Like time slows down here.”

She softened a little. “You could use that.”

“Couldn’t we all?”

The truth was, I’d been living in a whirlwind for years. Red carpets, interviews, fake relationships cooked up by publicists. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be anonymous. Or maybe, I’d never known.

Here, maybe I could breathe again.

“Lots of military around here,” Hannah said, glancing up from her screen. “My driver talked about it on the way over. Bases all over the Lowcountry.”

“I noticed.” I thought of the men I’d seen earlier at the airport—a cluster of them in civilian clothes, but unmistakable. Strong, quiet, built like they could take a punch and not blink. “They’re everywhere.”

“Not exactly your usual crowd.”

“That’s the point,” I said, smiling. “Maybe while we’re here, I’ll finally branch out. Try something different.”

She snorted. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. A fling. A normal man. Someone who doesn’t read Variety or know which angle makes my jawline look best.”

Her stylus froze mid-tap. “Lexi.”

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not? I’m twenty-eight, single, and not dead.” I crossed my arms, watching her expression shift from disbelief to concern. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just … a reminder that I’m still human.”

Hannah sighed, setting the tablet down. “You know that’s not how it works for you.”

“Because of the fame thing?”

“Because of the stalker thing,” she said bluntly. “And the paparazzi thing. And the every-move-you-make-becomes-a-headline thing. You can’t just sneak out and find some random guy at a bar.”

“Maybe not alone.” I gave her a teasing smile. “But with your help, maybe I could.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. You could sneak me out. We could pick a spot that’s not trendy or touristy. Somewhere local. I could wear a wig.”

“A wig.”

“A brunette one. Maybe with bangs.”

“You’d still look like you. You have a very … identifiable face.”

“Thanks?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she muttered, then leaned on the counter. “You want a fling, fine. Call Marty Hollander. He’s safe, he’s discreet, and he’s still clearly into you.”

“Marty?” I laughed. “That ship sailed.”

“He’d come running if you texted. You know he would.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m not trying to rekindle something. I’m trying to feel normal again.”

Hannah gave me the kind of look only sisters can pull off—equal parts affection and exasperation. “Normal people don’t have security teams, Lexi.”

“Yeah, well, I’d give anything to be normal for five minutes.”

Her expression softened. “You would. But you’re not.”

Touché.

I turned away from the argument and wandered toward the back doors, stepping onto the wide deck. The wood was warm beneath my feet, the breeze carrying the sound of water lapping against the pilings.

Los Angeles was noisy in a different way—metal and motion and wanting. This was quieter. But it still moved, still breathed.

I could already picture my days here. Morning runs along the marsh. Evenings rehearsing lines beneath ceiling fans. Maybe the occasional stolen drink at a local bar, if I could ever get away unseen.

A girl could dream.

“Hungry?” Hannah asked from inside.

“Starving. Let’s order something.”

“Anything in mind?”

“Someone told me about a place—Verandelle?”

She brightened. “Oh, yes. I saw that on your schedule notes. The studio’s liaison said it’s a local favorite.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the restaurant’s site.

The homepage loaded slowly on the weak island Wi-Fi, revealing a photo so vivid it almost moved—the courtyard awash in soft daylight, brick walls tangled with ivy, sunlight glinting off the surface of a small fountain.

Tables sat beneath wide umbrellas, white napkins fluttering in the breeze like tiny flags.

“Looks peaceful,” I said. “Like the kind of place where time forgets to hurry.”

“Sounds like heaven,” Hannah said.

“It looks like it, too.” I traced a finger across the image, following the archway of old brick and green vines. “I wish I could go there.”

“You could,” she offered carefully. “If we planned it right. Private room, maybe off-hours.”

“Right,” I said dryly. “And have the chef sign an NDA?”

She smiled, acknowledging the truth. Even here, anonymity was impossible.

I stared at the photo for another long moment, feeling that strange ache I’d never been able to name—the longing for a life I couldn’t quite have. To walk into a place like that, order a glass of wine, and not have anyone notice or care. To laugh too loud. To be seen without being recognized.

But that was a fantasy. And I lived enough of those on camera.

“Takeout it is,” I said finally, forcing a smile.

We scrolled through the menu together, debating between seafood and pasta until Hannah ordered both, because she knew me too well.

As we waited, I unpacked in the bedroom overlooking the water.

My clothes hung like a rainbow of characters—dresses for red carpets, for press junkets, for pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

I shoved them aside and pulled out my favorite denim shorts and a threadbare tee that still smelled faintly like sunscreen.

When the food arrived, we ate on the deck, legs propped on the railing, paper takeout boxes scattered between us. The cicadas had quieted, replaced by the distant hum of boats heading back to dock.

The shrimp pasta was rich with garlic and lemon, and the crab cakes might’ve ruined me for life. “This is insane,” I said between bites. “So good.”

“Agreed.”

“I could get used to this.”

Hannah smiled, the kind of small, real smile I rarely saw on set. “That’s the idea.”

For a while, we just sat there, eating in comfortable silence. The night wrapped around us, heavy and warm, the stars sharp above the dark marsh. Fireflies blinked like tiny paparazzi—only these ones didn’t want anything.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Hannah said quietly. “In South Carolina. Shooting a movie about heartbreak.”

“Ironic, right?”

“Maybe healing,” she said.

“Maybe.”

The word lingered in the air between us.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my hair fall over the edge. The sky was full of constellations I didn’t know, but I liked that. Not knowing. Not being in control for once.

I smiled at the thought of it—me, here, in this strange pocket of the South, about to make something beautiful.

The script had been sitting on my desk for nearly a year before I’d said yes. Too dark, my team warned. Too risky, too far from the brand I’d built. But something about the story had stuck with me: a woman trying to rebuild her life after the kind of loss that makes you question who you are.

Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was me. But I couldn’t turn it down.

“I think this movie’s going to be special,” I said after a while. “The story, the cast, the location—it all feels … right. Like it might change things.”

“Professionally?” Hannah asked.

“Maybe more than that.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You’ve said that before.”

“I know,” I admitted, laughing softly. “But this time feels different. I don’t know why.”

And I didn’t—not exactly. Maybe I just needed something to believe in.

I stared out at the marsh until the last shimmer of light sank behind the trees. The world blurred into silhouettes—the dock, the herons, the surface of the water catching what little glow was left. It was beautiful.

Tomorrow, the production would start, and I’d be surrounded by people again—directors, grips, stylists, makeup artists. They all wanted something: the right shot, the right quote, the right version of me.

I had everything I was supposed to want—success, beauty, even peace—and somehow it still felt like a cage.

I wanted laughter that wasn’t rehearsed. A voice beside me that wasn’t paid to stay. Someone to tell me I wasn’t just a product on a screen.

Maybe that was too much to ask.

I set down my drink and stood, the boards creaking softly beneath my feet. The air was warm against my skin, the marsh whispering secrets I couldn’t quite catch. Behind me, Hannah was already packing up the takeout boxes, efficient as ever.

“Big day tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Big day.”

I watched the horizon one last time before heading inside. The house felt larger now, the silence echoing through the hallways. I’d chosen it for privacy, and already I hated how well it delivered.

Still, as I slipped into bed and let the sounds of the island fade into the background, I couldn’t shake the flicker of something lighter.

Excitement. Hope.

Whatever it was, it felt good.