Chapter 18 Foreclosure and Seven Years Ago
FORECLOSURE AND SEVEN YEARS AGO
LUKE
The November sunset paints Seattle in shades of amber through my office windows, but I'm focused on the damning evidence spread across my desk.
Decisions I didn't make. Documents I didn't sign.
Meetings I didn't attend.
"You want to explain this?" I hold up a contract with my signature—except I've never seen this document before.
Daniella doesn't even have the grace to look guilty. "Which one? The Tokyo expansion approval you missed while installing security systems in a barn? Or the board presentation you skipped for goat yoga?"
"There was no goat yoga."
"No, but there was a goat. I've seen the Instagram posts." She pulls up her tablet. "Sixteen thousand likes on the one where you're in a tuxedo trying to coax a goat down from furniture."
"That's—Sixteen thousand?"
"Focus, Luke. The point is, you've been MIA for weeks. Someone had to keep the lights on."
"By forging my signature?"
"By maintaining operational optimization.” She crosses her arms. "Kenji's been handling the technical decisions. I've been managing the administrative. We've been covering for you."
"I don't need covering."
"Your calendar says otherwise." She scrolls through her tablet. "Missed meetings, postponed reviews, delegated responsibilities. All for trips to Alder Ridge."
"Those were for SafeStay implementation."
"Right. Which is why you came back covered in goat hair with your shirt inside out."
I adjust my glasses. "That was one time."
“Boss.” Her voice softens. "We're not judging. Well, I'm judging a little. But mostly we're worried. This isn't like you."
"What isn't?"
“Um, having a social life?” She pauses. "It's actually nice. Terrifying for those of us used to the mechanical Luke, but nice."
My phone buzzes. Text from Connor: Summit. 8 PM. More bachelor-wedding hoopla to handle. Callum's paying.
A pause before another text.
Wear something that doesn't smell like barn.
"I have to go," I tell Daniella. "The guys are meeting at The Summit."
"For Callum's pre-engagement party thing?"
"Grayson insists we call it 'masculine bonding over overpriced whiskey.'"
"That's a terrible name."
"Better than Connor's suggestion of 'feelings and scotch.'"
She laughs. "Go. Be social with your friends. But boss?”
“Yeah?”
My executive assistant’s brown eyes lower. “Maybe figure out what you want your, um, schedule to look like ahead of the SafeStay launch. You haven’t exactly been ‘on’ when it comes to the logistics.”
My jaw works. I grab for my suit jacket, shrugging into it. “You can relax, Daniella. I’ve got things handled."
"Do you though?"
I don't answer because honestly, I have no idea anymore.
The expensive members-only club, The Summit is its usual cathedral of curated masculinity when I arrive.
Polished walnut walls. Low lighting. Leather everything.
Smelling of money, musk, and generational trauma.
Connor, Grayson, and Alex are already at our usual booth—an elevated, semi-private table with a skyline view and an unspoken rule that conversations here are both privileged and punishable by mockery.
"—absolutely not how that works," Grayson is saying as I walk up. "You can't just add a helicopter pad—"
"I own the building," Alex cuts in, completely unfazed. "I can add whatever I want."
"Zoning laws exist, Alex."
"So do bribes."
"We call them 'incentives,'" Connor corrects. "Luke! Finally. Tell Alex he can’t install a helicopter pad on top of La Famiglia."
“Why would Mac’s restaurant need aerial access?” I ask, sliding into my seat.
“She doesn’t. Alex just wants to play Gotham.”
“It’s downtown. You live downtown.”
“Traffic,” Alex replies solemnly, like it’s a global crisis.
“You live four blocks away,” Connor reminds him.
“I work in Bellevue.”
“Then drive like a normal person,” Grayson mutters. “With tinted windows if your soul demands it.”
“Driving is for people without helicopters.”
"Where’s Callum?" I ask before this spirals into tax law and aviation codes.
"Running late," Connor replies. "Said he’s bringing a plus-one."
"Taking bets on Karina or his therapist," Grayson adds.
“Why would he bring his therapist?” Alex frowns.
“Because we’re exhausting,” Connor says. “And someone should be documenting our descent.”
“Speak for yourself,” Grayson says. “I’m perfectly adjusted.”
“You tried to algorithm your way into a wife,” Connor fires back.
“And it worked!”
“After she fell for your terrible jokes.”
“My jokes are elite,” Grayson grunts, scandalized.
Before I can weigh in on that blatant lie, our very own Scottish duke-adjacent Callum appears—copper-haired and sharp in a three-piece suit that’s tailored within an inch of his life. And he’s not alone.
Beside him stands a dark-haired man in an Armani suit. He looks familiar, but the catalogue of my brain can’t quite place him. His amber eyes flick across the table with predatory calm.
“Lads,” Callum says, “meet Killian Greer. Killian, these are the idiots I warned you about.”
“Charming intro,” Killian drawls, his voice low and dry with an East Coast edge—Boston Brahmin laced with just enough Irish rebellion to hint at bar fights in Harvard Square. “Though accurate, based on what I’ve heard.”
"Killian's my final groomsman," Callum explains. "Replacing my ass of a brother Richard for obvious embezzlement-related reasons."
"Greer," Connor says thoughtfully. "As in Greer Hospitality International?"
"Guilty." Killian takes a seat with the controlled grace of someone who's never made an awkward movement in his life. “Lately, the press seems to prefer calling me ‘Seattle’s Most Ineligible CEO.’ Divorce does wonders for your Q score.”
“Divorce, you say?” Grayson asks with the morbid curiosity of someone who built a dating empire on failed relationships.
“Twenty years of marriage dissolved in six months of legal warfare,” Killian says, lifting his drink—the bartender already knew what he wanted, which tells you everything about his membership status here.
“She got the Aspen house. I kept the business. The art collection we split fifty-fifty. Very biblical.”
"Twenty years," Alex repeats. "That's..."
"A life sentence with time off for bad behavior?" Killian suggests. "Yes. Started young, stayed too long, ended badly. The American dream."
At least she’s alive to hate you.
I push the sickening thought away, just as the server appears with Killian's drink. And I study the man with new eyes.
This is someone who built an empire parallel to mine, in an adjacent industry. We should be comparing notes about market penetration and supply chain optimization.
Instead, I ask, "Why did it end?"
Everyone looks at me.
Probably because I never ask personal questions.
Killian considers me over his glass. "The official reason? Irreconcilable differences. The real reason? According to my wife’s attorney, I loved my hotels more than my wife. She found someone who loved her more than his portfolio."
"She cheated?" Connor asks.
"Spectacularly. With my former business partner." His smile is sharp. "They're married now. Just had their first baby. Instagram is fascinating."
The table quiets. We’re all doing the math.
All thinking about what it takes to walk away from that kind of history—and survive it.
Before anyone can follow that rabbit hole too deep, Grayson deflects. “Well. Now we’ve all shared our trauma. Except Luke.”
Connor grins. “That’s right. Luke’s the last of us still single.”
“Technically,” Alex says. “I think Buttercup may have claimed him.”
“Not legally binding,” I mutter.
“But emotionally? You’re in deep,” Connor says.
Killian lifts an eyebrow. “Buttercup?”
“Goat,” my friends say in unison.
I clear my throat, hearing myself say her name. “The woman I’m, uh, seeing is named Sage," I confirm. "She runs an inn. Lovely little B&B out of Alder Ridge. I…helped her with her security system.”
"Charming. Mixing business with pleasure?" His tone is light but his eyes are knowing. "Dangerous game, that. Trust me. I married my first investor's daughter. Built the business and the marriage simultaneously. When one failed, they both did."
"It's not like that," I say.
"No? You're not integrating your technology into her business?
Not tangling professional interests with personal ones?
" He leans back. "Let me guess—it started as purely business.
Then suddenly you're making excuses to visit.
Finding reasons to extend meetings. Until you can't tell where the partnership ends and the relationship begins. "
I raise my own glass to my lips, finding it hard to answer.
Killian chuckles early. “No worries there, brother. I get it. I lived it.” He leans back in his chair, carding his fingers through his hair.
“Hell, my ex-wife? She was brilliant. Ran the hotel development side while I handled operations. Perfect partnership.” His expression shutters. “Until it wasn't."
"What changed?" Grayson asks.
"Success. We built something extraordinary and forgot to build each other." He pauses. "Or maybe we never knew how. Easier to love something quantifiable. Occupancy rates, revenue streams, expansion metrics. People are messier."
"That's cheerful," Alex mutters.
"That's experience." Killian raises his glass. "But don't let my bitterness dampen the celebration. To Callum and Karina. May they beat the odds."
We drink, but the toast feels hollow.
"So Luke," Killian continues, "this innkeeper. How's her business?"
"Growing. My security system SafeStay’s implementation at her inn is helping with visibility."
"But not profitability?"
"That's... in development."
"Ah." He nods knowingly. "The savior complex. Very familiar. You see potential, want to help, get emotionally invested in the outcome. Soon you can't separate saving the business from saving the person."
"That's not—"
"What's her burn rate? Cash position? Debt-to-equity ratio?"
"I haven't—"