1
PORTIA
The 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.
