Page 22 of The Hacker (Dominion Hall #5)

VIVIENNE

T he morning light was soft, filtered through the gauzy curtains in Elias’s suite. I realized now that even his fortress had seams of gentleness. Places where the world could get in.

I lay still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He slept like a man who had finally put down his weapons. One arm thrown above his head, the other curved loosely in the space where my body had been just moments ago. He looked peaceful.

I did not feel peaceful.

I felt raw. Peeled back. Like if he opened his eyes right now and looked at me the way he had last night, I might shatter under the weight of it. So, I moved quietly.

I eased out of bed, careful not to wake him.

My jeans were still on the chair where I’d left them, but the T-shirt I’d arrived in—his—was a casualty of the night before.

Torn down the front, stretched and ruined.

No way I was wearing it again unless I wanted to look like the poster girl for emotional reckoning.

I smirked despite myself and padded over to his dresser. The top drawer slid open with a soft groan, revealing a neat row of T-shirts, all blacks and grays, soft from wear. I chose one that smelled like him—clean, dark, and a little dangerous—and pulled it over my head.

It hung low on my thighs, swallowing me whole in the best possible way. I slid into my jeans underneath, the denim stiff against skin still marked by his hands. The fabric grounded me, reminded me of who I was outside of this room.

I didn’t look at the gowns still hanging nearby. I’d felt guilty even trying them on, like I was faking a life that didn’t belong to me. Pretending I could be polished or perfect or … more.

In the quiet hush of morning, I crept through the halls of Dominion Hall, down the back stairs, through the heavy door Elias had programmed to open with my fingerprint.

My stomach twisted at that.

It was one thing to give a girl champagne and strawberries. It was another to encode her into your life like she belonged there.

Like she might stay.

The drive home wasn’t long. Charleston hadn’t quite woken yet. The streets were wet from a late-night rain, and the scent of salt and brick clung to everything. My tires hissed softly on the pavement, a rhythmic reminder of the world outside Elias’s moneyed cocoon.

Money.

God.

My skin prickled remembering what he’d said last night.

“My riches are your riches.”

He’d meant it. I could tell by the way he’d looked at me when he said it—like he was offering oxygen. Like he didn’t understand why I wasn’t already breathing it in.

And I wanted to. But guilt sat in my throat like a stone.

Because I knew what that kind of money could do.

How it could fix things, patch holes, pull people back from the brink.

I’d spent years pretending I didn’t care about it, spinning poverty into poetry, sacrifice into strength.

But that was a lie. A necessary one. Because the truth was, money had always been the thing we didn’t talk about. The thing that made everything harder.

And now I was sleeping with a man who had more of it than God.

What did that make me?

A dancer with broken dreams and a bleeding heart, suddenly standing on the edge of a gold-plated offer she couldn’t afford to take.

But I had a problem.

A real one. And no matter how many hours I worked, no matter how many ways I stretched my budget or talked myself out of needing help—I couldn’t fix it alone.

It was my mother.

More specifically, it was the disaster back home swallowing her whole.

Our mother was slipping away, piece by piece.

The official diagnosis was dementia. A cruel, creeping thief.

She lived in a memory care facility outside New Orleans now, the kind of place that smelled like lemon disinfectant and lost time.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was safe. Structured.

She needed that. Needed round-the-clock care to keep her from wandering into traffic or forgetting how the stove worked or who she was.

But last month, she’d been scammed. Some predator with a soothing voice and a fake badge had convinced her to wire away every last cent of her savings—said her Social Security number had been compromised, that her pension was in danger, that if she didn’t act fast, she’d lose everything.

So she acted. Fast. Desperately. And now? She had nothing.

And the facility didn’t do charity. They gave us until the end of the month. After that, if we couldn’t pay, she’d be discharged. No extensions. No exceptions. Evicted like a tenant behind on rent.

She couldn’t come live with Emmaline. Not with the baby there.

Not when Mom had episodes that turned violent, lashing out in confusion, once throwing a ceramic angel across the room because she thought it was watching her sleep.

But that wasn’t the only reason. Emmaline’s apartment was up a narrow flight of stairs, no elevator, no extra bedroom, no budget for a nurse.

And if we’re being honest? Emmaline didn’t have it in her.

She was barely holding herself together.

Adding a baby and a mother with a fading mind to the mix would crack her in half.

And me?

I was here. In Charleston. Drinking champagne in silk. While everything I loved burned down without me.

The guilt was so loud, it made my ears ring.

I climbed the narrow stairs above Liquid Courage and unlocked the door to my apartment with shaking fingers. The wood groaned as I stepped inside.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Then I heard it. A soft snore.

I frowned, toeing off my shoes as I crossed the room.

There, curled up in my bed like she belonged, was my sister.

Emmaline’s face was slack with sleep, one hand tucked beneath her chin, hair fanned across my pillow. Her suitcase sat in the corner, half-unzipped. A battered tote bag slumped beside it.

I stood frozen in the doorway, heart thudding.

I didn’t know whether to feel comforted or invaded.

She hadn’t told me she was staying. But maybe she hadn’t meant to. Maybe she hadn’t known where else to go.

I wrapped my arms around myself and sank down onto the edge of the sofa, staring at the woman in my bed who had once braided my hair and told me stories when Mom was too tired to pretend.

Emmaline. The responsible one. The fixer.

She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like the years hadn’t carved so many sharp edges into her spine.

And all I could think was: I could make this better .

I could ask Elias. One call. One word. One surrender.

But what would that cost? What part of me would I be selling?

The memory of the silk dress still clung to my body like it was mocking me. Beautiful. Expensive. Not mine.

I stared at the woman sleeping in my bed and thought, What if it’s not about earning anymore? What if it’s about choosing?

Even then, I didn’t know the answer.

All I knew was that the weight of love—real, complicated, broken love—was heavier than any guilt money could buy. The weight of it didn’t just press on my chest—it hollowed me out from the inside, like something gnawing through bone.

All this time, I’d told myself my recklessness was freedom. That my cliff dives and rooftop parties and tequila-drenched decisions were rebellion. That the rush, the chaos, the danger—they made me feel alive.

But maybe that wasn’t it.

Maybe I was just trying to outrun reality. Outrun the calls from Emmaline I let go to voicemail. The voicemails I couldn’t bring myself to listen to because I already knew what they said.

Mom’s slipping. Mom’s in danger. Mom will be out with no place to go if we don’t do something.

Maybe every wild thing I did was just me trying to forget that my mother—the woman who once danced in the kitchen with powdered sugar on her nose—couldn’t even remember my name some days.

That she looked through me now, not at me.

That her face, once so animated, now sagged with confusion more often than recognition.

And no matter what I did—no matter how fast I ran, how high I climbed, how hard I tried to disappear—I couldn’t escape that.

I couldn’t fix her. And I hated that. Even worse? I couldn’t fix her money problems. Shouldn’t a good daughter be able to come up with the money?

So I chased the next distraction. Poured gasoline on my own grief and called it adrenaline. Because if I was moving fast enough, maybe the guilt couldn’t catch me.

But it did.

It caught me when I watched Elias sleep, soft and unguarded, and realized he was offering me more than sex or safety. He was offering sanctuary. A life raft I hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. A future with insulation. With rescue.

It caught me when I stepped back into my apartment and saw Emmaline curled up like a child in my bed, exhausted from carrying a burden she never asked for. A burden I should’ve been sharing.

It caught me now, as I sat on the edge of the sofa, arms wrapped around myself like they might hold me together.

I didn’t know what scared me more—that I couldn’t fix any of it alone … or that I didn’t have to.

Because if I took Elias’s help, if I said yes to his billions, I’d be admitting that I couldn’t do it all myself. That I needed saving. That my independence, the thing I’d bled for, was maybe never strength at all—just fear dressed up as pride.

And I didn’t know who I’d be without that fear.

I glanced at Emmaline again.

She shifted in her sleep, brow creasing like even her dreams weren’t safe anymore.

And I knew—deep down, where the truth lived—that this wasn’t about a silk dress or a glass of champagne. It was about choosing to stay. Choosing to stop running. Choosing to fight, not just for survival, but for something better.

Maybe that started with asking for help. Maybe it started with one call. Maybe it started with love that didn’t need to be earned. Just accepted.

But before I could sit with that truth—before I could let it root itself inside me—I panicked.

The idea of accepting help, of letting someone like Elias see the cracks and not flinch, felt more dangerous than any rooftop stunt I’d ever pulled. More terrifying than the thought of losing everything, because it meant giving up the one thing I still had control over: my story.

And I wasn’t ready to rewrite it.

I stood suddenly, blood rushing to my head. My skin itched with the need to move, to run, to do something reckless enough to drown out the noise in my chest.

I crossed the room in quick strides and shut the bathroom door behind me before I could second-guess it. The water in the shower took forever to warm, so I stepped into the icy spray and let it jolt me awake, shivering as it dragged me back to the surface.

Five minutes. No more. Just long enough to wash off the silk and guilt and lingering traces of Elias’s touch.

Then I was out, toweling off with a ragged breath, tugging on ripped jeans and an old gray tank top like armor. No makeup. No perfume. No softness. Just the girl who ran when things got too real.

When I opened the door, Emmaline was sitting up in bed, blinking blearily.

“Hey,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just for a second. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Her brow furrowed. “Now?”

I nodded, already grabbing my phone and bag. “Work thing.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. I did need to work—at staying distracted. At not unraveling.

I kissed her on the top of the head as I passed. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

She looked like she wanted to protest, but I didn’t wait.

I was down the stairs before she could say another word. Outside, the air was thick and heavy, pressing down on my skin like a warning.

I hit Jessa’s contact and raised the phone to my ear, pacing in the alley behind the bar.

She picked up on the second ring. “You’re alive. That’s good.”

“Barely,” I muttered. “You working today?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I need you. After. Something high. Something fast.”

A pause. “Are we talking skydiving again or illegal street racing?”

“I don’t care. Just promise me something stupid. Something dangerous.”

Jessa sighed. “You sound like you need a full exorcism, not a thrill ride. I thought you were mad. After the meeting?—?”

“Just do this with me. Please.”

She hesitated, and for a minute I wondered if she’d refuse. “Okay,” she finally said reluctantly. “I get off at six. Meet me at the church parking lot off East Bay. We’ll take it from there.”

“Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk instead?”

“No.”

She didn’t press.

Just said, “See you then,” and hung up.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and stared up at the sky, already trying to figure out what version of myself I could become next. The fearless one. The fun one. The broken one in too-tight jeans and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Because being the girl who needed saving?

I wasn’t ready for her yet.