Chapter 16 Amara #2
For now I’m still keeping my own villa in the public area of the resort, so I have somewhere to crash if I need it. But I probably won’t renew it at the end of the week,
The ride back to The Westlight starts in silence, but halfway up the coastal road, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“He’s good,” I admit. “I hate that he’s good.”
Corin’s jaw tightens. “He’s had years of practice.”
I shake my head. “He worked that room like a politician at a town hall. Half those people probably think he’s their new savior.”
“Which is exactly what he wanted.” Corin’s voice has the kind of control that means he’s furious underneath. “He’ll spend the weekend building relationships, undermining our credibility, and positioning himself as the ‘better’ alternative.”
I study Corin. “So we don’t let him.”
“Amara—”
“I’m serious.” I lean forward, warming to my argument.
“He thinks he can outmaneuver us because he’s been playing this game longer.
But here’s the thing about guys like Xavier: they’re so convinced of their own brilliance that they get sloppy.
They underestimate people. I’m going to continue searching through every historical document you have.
Digital and paper. If he’s planted forged documents to frame you, there’s going to be a trail. There always is.”
Corin reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. The gesture is so simple and natural that it catches me off guard.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For standing by me today. For—” he hesitates, “for not running.”
My breath catches at the vulnerability in his voice, and I want to kiss him right there, but I don’t, because, well, Keon’s still driving, and all that.
“Yeah, well.” I squeeze his hand back. “Someone has to stand beside you. Consider it part of my legal counsel duties.”
He grins. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I smile in return. “Billable hours are billable hours, Saelinger.”
He laughs and some of the tension finally bleeds out of his shoulders.
When we reach The Westlight, the sun is starting its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky and beach the usual amazing pink shades you’ll only find in the Bahamas.
Corin helps me out of the SUV, his hand lingering at the small of my back.
“Dinner?” he asks.
“After I send forty-seven strongly worded emails to your foundation’s accounting team? Absolutely.”
“Make it fifty. I’ll open wine.”
That night, I’m camped out in Corin’s study with my laptop, and working through some of the forwarded email threads Corin’s accounting team have already begun sending my way.
See, earlier Corin made a single phone call to his accounting team with the instructions that they answer all my requests “immediately.”
Apparently, “immediately” in billionaire-speak translates to “flood her inbox like you’re trying to drown her in Excel attachments.”
Anyway, I’m halfway through an email thread labeled “Donor Correspondence Q3 Outreach” when I find it.
A board memo, dated three weeks ago. It authorizes a land purchase on Eleuthera that would displace islander families, clearing coastal property for commercial development. Exactly the kind of thing we’ve come here to actively fighting against.
Corin’s signature is at the bottom.
Except.
Wait.
I read it again. Then a third time.
The legal phrasing is off. Too formal in places where Corin writes casually. Too casual in places where he’d be precise. And the authorization chain is wrong. Corin wouldn’t bypass foundation protocol for a purchase this size.
I know his writing style by now. I’ve read hundreds of his emails, his memos, his contract annotations.
This isn’t his voice.
But it’s meant to look like it is.
Son of a bitch.
I find Corin in the kitchen. He’s just come from the resort’s gym, judging from his tank top and shorts, and he’s sipping a protein shake while reviewing something on his laptop.
But the way those gym shorts sit on his hips, exposing those corded thighs... oh my god.
And thanks to that tank top, I can see the full cut of his arms, the definition in his chest, and—
Focus, Counselor!
You have actual important information to share.
Stop mentally cataloging Corin’s post-workout muscle groups!
He looks up when I enter.
“Found something.” I slide the memo across his desk. “In one of the emails from the accounting team.”
He picks it up, reads it, and his face goes white.
“He’s planting evidence,” he says quietly. “Framing me as the one pushing displacement.”
“Looks like he still has friends in the foundation,” I comment.
Corin nods.
“The legal phrasing doesn’t match your style,” I point out. “Anyone who’s worked with you would notice.”
“But the press won’t. The board won’t. Not until it’s too late.” He sets the memo down like it might bite him. “He’s building leverage. I’ve been constructing a case against him for the embezzlement and the previously falsified documents. This is his counter-move. Mutually assured destruction.”
I sink into the chair across from him. “So if you expose him for embezzlement, he exposes you for land-grabbing. Except his version is fabricated.”
“Exactly. And the land deals are real. He’s been quietly buying options through shell companies, planning to flip them to developers once the clinic destabilizes. If families start panic-selling out of fear, he profits while my reputation burns.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “He’s holding the community hostage to save himself.”
He nods. “Essentially.”
I sit with that for a moment, letting the rage settle into something cold and useful.
This is what you do.
You find the weak spots.
You build the case.
You demolish the opposition.
“So we prove the memo is forged,” I say finally. “We expose his shell companies and show the community you’re not involved.”
Corin looks at me for a long moment. “And if we can’t?”
I lean forward, holding his gaze. “Then we build a better case.”
He reaches across the desk and takes my hand. “Together?”
“Together,” I confirm.