Page 31 of The Hacker (Dominion Hall #5)

VIVIENNE

T he 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 plane without 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 was already 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?”

“And it’s handled.”

Just like that.

I studied him, this man who had secrets like shadows and skills that could reroute entire systems without blinking. “So you’re telling me you took down a threat before takeoff and now you’re drinking your coffee like it’s Sunday brunch?”

“Would you rather I be pacing in the galley?”

“No,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind details.”

He leaned back, fingers toying with the edge of his cup. “Let’s just say an enemy underestimated what I’m willing to do to protect what’s mine.”

I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. “And I’m what’s yours?”

His voice dropped a note. “You were the second you walked into Teresa’s office like you were on fire.”

I didn’t have a comeback.

Because there were truths that didn’t need to be debated. They just needed to be lived.

The jet lifted, engines roaring to life. I watched the city shrink beneath us, spires and streets fading into geometry. Elias reached for my hand. And I let him hold me steady while the ground disappeared beneath my feet.

The flight was smooth, silent, and swift. There was no turbulence, no flight attendant rattling off seatbelt instructions, no fussy baby in row seventeen. Just the low hum of luxury and the steady hand of Elias resting against mine like he was tethering me to the sky.

By the time we descended into New Orleans, the sun had risen higher, painting the sky in smears of coral and pale gold.

A sleek black town car waited on the tarmac, its windows just as dark as the SUV in Charleston.

The moment the wheels touched ground, the jet’s stairs were lowered, the car doors opened, and a uniformed driver stood with one hand on the door and the other pressed to his earpiece.

“Mr. Dane,” the driver said. “Welcome back.”

Elias simply nodded.

We were ushered into the back seat like visiting royalty.

Emmaline and I sat side by side, but it was Elias’s presence that filled the car, that made the plush leather seats and gleaming console feel like part of something much bigger.

He didn’t need to announce his status. It followed him—quiet, certain, absolute.

The memory care facility sat just off a sleepy boulevard lined with ancient oaks and crumbling brick.

Saint Cecilia’s looked more like a Southern estate than a medical building—high columns, wrought-iron balconies, ivy crawling up whitewashed walls.

But beneath the beauty was the sharp scent of antiseptic, and a too-calm quiet that always made me uneasy.

The director was already waiting at the door, clipboard in hand and a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Elias stepped forward to greet her, shaking her hand with the kind of practiced calm that could broker international treaties or, apparently, buy your mother out of a memory care contract.

“I’ve brought the full transfer packet,” the woman said briskly, flipping pages as we stepped inside. “The discharge papers, her medical records, and a full accounting of the final bill.”

Elias took it, skimmed the top page, then passed it to an assistant—who I hadn’t even noticed was trailing behind us until she stepped forward in perfect silence, tablet in hand.

Was she from Charleston? How did she even get to New Orleans? I had so many questions.

“I’ll wire the balance,” Elias said. “Now.”

The director blinked. “You—now?”

He looked up. “Is that a problem?”

She faltered, then shook her head. “No, of course, not. It’s just that most families?—”

“We’re not most families,” he said, his voice all steel and silk.

We found her in the solarium, where they said she liked to sit when the sunlight was softest. Maureen Laveau was wearing a pale blue housecoat and white slippers. Her hair was neatly combed, her hands folded in her lap.

She didn’t look up when we entered. Just stared through the glass at a tree heavy with blossoms.

“Mama?” I said gently, heart in my throat.

She turned slowly. Her eyes were glassy but clear. She squinted, as if we were far away. “Are you one of the nurses?”

“No,” I whispered. “It’s me. Vivi.”

She blinked. “Vivi. That’s a pretty name.”

Beside me, Emmaline let out a quiet breath.

“We’ve come to take you home,” Emmaline said, stepping forward.

Maureen’s mouth turned down. “This is my home.”

“No, Mama,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “We’ve found a new place. It’s beautiful. You’ll love it.”

Her eyes darted. Confused. Frightened.

“I don’t want to go,” she said suddenly, her voice rising. “I don’t know you. I don’t know where I’m going!”

An orderly appeared in the doorway, tense. “Sometimes transitions can be hard,” she said to us gently. “It’s not unusual for patients to become agitated when there’s disruption to their routine?—”

“I said no!” my mother cried, her voice cracking. “You leave me alone!”

I froze.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to reach her. I felt sixteen again, standing outside her locked bathroom door, listening to her cry without ever knowing why.

Then Elias stepped forward.

“Vivi,” he said softly. “Sing to her.”

I blinked. “What?”

“She doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t recognize your face. But she might recognize your voice.”

Emmaline looked at me, her eyes already filling. “You remember what she used to sing to us when we couldn’t sleep?”

I nodded. “‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

Elias didn’t say another word. Just stepped back and let us take the lead.

I knelt beside her. Emmaline did the same.

And then, in a trembling voice that cracked on the first word, I began.

“You are my sunshine ... my only sunshine ...”

Emmaline joined me, her alto grounding my whisper.

“You make me happy, when skies are gray ...”

My mother’s eyes fluttered. Her lips moved.

“You’ll never know, dear ... how much I love you ...”

A tear slid down her cheek.

“Please don’t take ... my sunshine away.”

Silence fell like a hush in church.

Then, softly, my mother reached for my hand. “Vivienne?”

I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah, Mama. It’s me.”

“You always sang so off-key,” she whispered, smiling now, like the clouds had parted in her mind.

I laughed, sobbed, nodded again.