1
AMELIA
Ishould’ve been somewhere dusty.
Somewhere loud, somewhere raw, somewhere that smelled of diesel and adrenaline and the kind of fear that made my heart race like no ballroom ever could.
Instead, I was in Charleston, South Carolina, of all places—humid, polished, drowning in magnolia-scented air—standing under a chandelier that probably cost more than a year of the freelance contracts I scraped together.
My dress clung to the back of my legs. Jet lag pulled at the corners of my vision like fingers. And every pore on my body had decided to remind me I wasn’t built for the Southeast.
Especially not in formal wear.
Ugh.
I tugged at the neckline of the gown I’d borrowed from a friend. “You’ll look perfect,” she’d said. “Gala-appropriate.”
Right now, all I wanted was cargo pants, a press vest, and a backpack full of recording equipment.
Sixteen hours ago, I’d been on a transport plane sitting between two Marines who smelled like dust and exhaustion.Now, I was surrounded by Charleston’s political elite swirling around each other with champagne flutes and curated smiles.
A different battlefield.
One I disliked far more.
My heels clicked across polished marble as I stepped further into the grand rotunda of Mayor Natalie Kennedy’s charity gala—an event I normally would’ve avoided at all costs, if not for the tip burning a hole in my mind.
Charleston-based ex-military billionaires with political reach.
Leaked documents.
Potential corruption.
A story that smelled too good to ignore.
I’d landed at Charleston International four hours earlier, sweated straight through my blouse while waiting for my rental car, and spent the drive downtown trying not to fall asleep at the wheel. I’d checked into the Embassy Suites in the historic district—a practical choice, nothing too fancy, the kind of place where journalists and government staffers could blend in without raising eyebrows. It had seemed like a good spot to stay under the radar.
The hotel shower had helped. Barely.
What I needed was sleep.
The mayor stood near the stage greeting donors, radiant in a deep green gown that made her golden hair gleam under the lights. She laughed with a senator, then leaned into her fiancé who, even from across the room, radiated former-military, current-dangerous energy.
He looked like a man who’d never once been told no.
I sipped water instead of wine. I needed my head clear.
The tipster’s voice echoed in my thoughts.
You want the real story? Start with Charleston. Follow the money. Follow the soldiers who didn’t stay soldiers. There’s a web down there, Emerson. Bigger than you think.
I hadn’t asked for names. Sources rarely gave them. But I had been given a phrase:
Dominion Hall.
It meant nothing to me yet, except that it had been spoken with the kind of reverence normally reserved for holy sites or classified installations.
And when I’d tried to dig deeper before getting on the plane?
