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The car ride to the Charleston airport was quiet but charged, like the hush before a curtain rises. A dark SUV with windows so tinted they might as well have been black slid through the morning traffic like it didn’t belong to this world.
Elias sat beside me, legs spread, one hand resting on my knee. Emmaline was in the back, her Bible clutched in one hand and a leather tote in the other like she was going to war but hadn’t yet decided if she’d bring mercy.
We pulled up to a private gate—no signs, no lines, no announcements overhead. Just a crisp man in a navy suit with a tablet in his hand and a smile that said he knew our names before we ever introduced ourselves.
“This way, Miss Laveau,” he said, and I almost looked over my shoulder to see if someone else was behind me.
The jet waited on the tarmac, long and gleaming, white with a subtle midnight-blue stripe like someone had painted elegance onto velocity. Stairs extended as we approached, a gold-trimmed welcome mat catching the rising sun. I’d never boarded a planewithout the chaotic clatter of boarding groups and overhead bins and crying children. This? This felt like slipping behind the velvet rope into a different life.
Elias wore a charcoal jacket, no tie, black slacks tailored to a body that didn’t need tailoring. His whole presence hummed with quiet dominance and freshly pressed confidence.
I wore black leggings, boots, and an oversized cream sweater that hit mid-thigh. My hair was up in a twist I barely remembered putting in, sunglasses perched uselessly on my head. I didn’t look like I belonged here.
But he did.
And somehow, because he wanted me here, I did, too.
Emmaline wore a linen shirt-dress the color of weathered bone, cinched at the waist with a belt that might’ve been our grandmother’s. Her hair was braided, face bare, but she walked like someone with a mission from God—and maybe she had one.
Inside the jet, the air changed.
Cream leather seats arranged in club-style configuration with mahogany accents. Wide windows, gold-rimmed trays. A bar along one side with crystal bottles of amber and top-shelf clarity. The flight attendant, impeccably dressed in navy and gold, greeted us with a voice smooth as honey.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Dane. Miss Laveau. Miss ...?”
“Mrs. DeSoto,” Emmaline said, slipping into her married name like it was armor.
“Can I offer you coffee, tea, fresh juice? Mimosas?”
“Coffee, please,” I said, voice still sleep-soft.
The attendant nodded and vanished like she’d been conjured.
I took a seat beside Elias, watching the tarmac through the window as the steps were pulled away and the engines began to hum. We hadn’t even lifted off, but the cabin felt like it wasalready flying—clean lines, golden morning light, the weightless luxury of knowing you didn’t have to hustle for overhead space.
Elias looked ... different. Not in the way he was dressed. In the way his shoulders had dropped a few inches. His fingers rested lazily on the armrest, his posture relaxed like someone who’d been bracing for a hit and found it didn’t come.
I turned toward him, one brow raised. “You’re in a good mood.”
He glanced sideways, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Can’t a man enjoy a little morning serenity?”
“You can. But that’s not what this is.”
He didn’t deny it. Just reached for his coffee and took a slow sip.
“Well?” I prompted.
His eyes met mine, rich and clear and smug in the best kind of way. “You. Mostly.”
I smiled, but he wasn’t done.
“But also ... let’s just say something I set in motion finally paid off.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Elias.”
“I had someone working on a problem,” he said carefully. “A serious one. Something that could’ve jeopardized Dominion Hall, and you, by proximity.”
“And?”