Page 1 of The Viper
1
LEXI
The driver’s GPS announced we’d arrived, though I would’ve known without the robotic voice. The air itself changed—thicker, sweeter, carrying a whisper of salt from the marsh. Spanish moss hung like tinsel from the oaks, and the sun glowed gold against the water beyond the dock.
My new home. At least for the next few months.
“James Island,” the driver said, climbing out to grab my bags. His accent curled softly at the edges—Lowcountry music I was learning to hear. “You’ll like it here. Quiet, but close to everything.”
Quiet sounded good. Quiet wasn’t something I usually had.
The house was a pale, weathered blue with a wide porch and white columns that leaned just enough to make it look charming instead of haunted. I stepped out of the car and drew a deep breath.
Los Angeles had its own kind of beauty, I supposed—sharp and sterile, made of glass and light. But Charleston felt alive. Old and watchful.
A cicada screamed from the trees, then another answered, the sound ricocheting through the humidity. My long, blonde hair clung to the back of my neck, and I knew within an hour it would swell into something my stylist would call a “situation.” I smiled, anyway.
“Want me to bring these inside?” the driver asked, hoisting one of my suitcases.
“Yes, please. Just by the entry’s perfect.”
He nodded and carried the luggage up the steps. I followed with the smaller bags, my shoes creaking against the wood.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and salt air—like the sea itself had scrubbed the floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the marsh, where egrets stood still as marble statues among the reeds.
It was all too beautiful, almost cinematic. But then again, maybe that was just how I’d learned to see the world—through invisible camera lenses, always composing shots.
Hannah was already there, of course. My sister-slash-assistant-slash-babysitter. She stood at the kitchen island with her tablet, organizing the week’s schedule like a general preparing for battle.
“There you are,” she said without looking up. “How was the flight?”
“Private,” I teased, setting my purse down. “Yours?”
That earned me a faint smile. “Uneventful. Which is exactly how I like them.”
Hannah was three years younger but carried herself like an older sibling—poised, organized, perpetually unimpressed. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot, and her black linen dress made her look like she’d stepped out of a minimalist Pinterest board.
Meanwhile, I was still wearing sunglasses inside. Some habits die hard.
“Everything’s set up,” she said, tapping her tablet. “Your wardrobe delivery comes tomorrow, security detail meets with production at nine, and your first table read’s Monday morning.”
“Perfect.” I crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting in the far-off rumble of a boat motor. “It’s gorgeous here.”
“It’s humid,” she corrected.
“Humid can be gorgeous.”
Hannah arched an eyebrow. “So can rattlesnakes.”
“Fair point.” I laughed and leaned on the windowsill. A heron lifted off from the marsh, its wings slicing through the orange dusk. “Still. It feels … different. Like time slows down here.”
She softened a little. “You could use that.”
“Couldn’t we all?”
The truth was, I’d been living in a whirlwind for years. Red carpets, interviews, fake relationships cooked up by publicists. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be anonymous. Or maybe, I’d never known.
Here, maybe I could breathe again.
