Chapter 17 Corin
Corin
Iwake up with Amara’s hair in my face and her ass pressed against my thigh, and for a second I forget that my entire professional life is circling the drain.
Just for a second.
Then I remember that Xavier Laurent is somewhere on this island plotting my destruction while I lie here like a lovesick idiot counting the freckles on my girlfriend’s shoulder.
Girlfriend. Is that what she is now?
We haven’t talked about it. Haven’t defined anything. We agreed to share my bed each night and face whatever comes together, and at some point I stopped pretending this was casual.
I stopped pretending a lot of things.
She shifts in her sleep, making a soft sound that stirs my cock. Her tank top has ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist. I want to touch her. Want to wake her up by sliding my hand under that fabric and feeling her arch into me.
But I have a press event in an hour and several more problems that won’t solve themselves.
So instead I ease out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and head for the shower.
Cold water. That’s what I need. Something to reset myself and remind me that I’m still Corin Saelinger, not whatever soft, distracted version of myself I’ve become since she started sleeping in my bed.
But if I’m being entirely honest, I kind of like this new version of me.
I’m drying off when my phone buzzes. Thorne.
Press event protocol confirmed. Two-car convoy. Keon primary, Sable secondary. Local police coordinating crowd control. ETA venue 09:45.
Right. The school donation.
This is a good thing. It’s genuine philanthropy. New computers for the island’s schools, scholarships for promising students, and teacher training programs. The kind of work the foundation was built to do.
Except it’s also a countermove. After what Amara found last night, after seeing Xavier work that community forum like a seasoned con artist, I need something to stabilize my image before he poisons it further.
Every dollar I’m donating today is both authentic and strategic, and the fact that those two things can coexist makes me want to throw my phone at the wall.
I get dressed instead. Lightweight linen suit in sand with unlined loafers. The whole tropical businessman aesthetic I’ve perfected since arriving on Eleuthera.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Amara is awake. She’s sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around her waist, her hair a beautiful mess.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“We have that press thing today, remember?” I adjust my cuffs because I need something to do with my hands.
She nods. “Oh yeah. The school donation?”
“Yep. There will be cameras, handshakes. We’ll be going through the whole performance.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Performance?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” She checks the time. “Shit. You should have waken me.” She pushes out of bed, and I watch her walk to the bathroom.
Those linen trousers she favors are sitting on the chair by the window, and she grabs them on her way.
The tank top she slept in barely covers her ass, and I catch a glimpse of her bare buttocks underneath.
My cock stirs yet again.
Stop!
“The donation is real,” I call after her. “The impact is real. But the timing is also about controlling the narrative before Xavier can spin it.”
She pauses in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “I know.”
I frown. “Does that bother you?”
She rubs one eye. “Ask me on the way. After I’ve had coffee.”
The bathroom door closes, and I’m left standing there like an idiot, wondering if I just failed some kind of test.
Probably did.
I head downstairs to find Keon already waiting in the kitchen, speaking quietly with Ysela about the convoy route.
He nods when he sees me. “Mr. Saelinger. The Vehicles are staged. Thorne is already at the venue doing his sweep.”
“Any sign of our friend?” I ask.
Keon knows exactly who I mean. “Laurent is still at The Cove. His people haven’t moved yet. Sable has eyes on the hotel.”
Good. The last thing I need is Xavier showing up at my carefully orchestrated PR moment and finding a way to twist it.
Amara comes downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in one of those cotton poplin dresses that make me want to peel her out of it with my teeth.
She’s covering the marks I left on her neck with makeup again.
I shouldn’t find leaving behind those marks as satisfying as I do.
“Ready?” I ask.
She grabs the waiting black coffee from the counter and downs a few sips. “Ready.”
The ride to the school is tense. Keon drives the primary SUV while Sable follows in the secondary vehicle. First time we’ve used the two-car protocol on Eleuthera, which tells me Thorne is taking Xavier’s presence seriously.
Amara is quiet beside me, her legal pad open on her lap.
She’s been bringing documents home from the clinic’s storage area, old foundation files that might contain something useful.
Last night she found that forged board memo in the accounting team’s emails.
Tonight she’s planning to go through the paper records again.
I watch her make small annotations in the margins.
“You don’t have to come to this,” I say suddenly.
She looks up. “We discussed this.”
“I know. But if Xavier shows up, if the press starts asking questions about us specifically...”
“Then I’ll smile politely and refer them to your communications team.” She returns to her legal pad. “And if Xavier shows, your security team will deny him from the venue. Stop trying to protect me. We covered this.”
Right. We did.
Still, I hate it.
A question sits on my tongue. The one she told me to ask on the way.
Does it bother you? The timing of the donation. Using charity to make me look good.
But now, watching her make those precise annotations in the margins of her legal pad, I realize I don’t actually want to know the answer.
Her approval shouldn’t matter this much. Doesn’t change the foundation’s position, doesn’t alter Xavier’s threat.
But somewhere between waking up with her hair in my face and watching her hunt through archival documents like a woman possessed, her high opinion became the thing I’m most afraid of losing.
And if she says it bothers her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this.
So I don’t ask.
I look out the window instead and tell myself it’s strategic silence.
Coward.
The venue is already crowded when we arrive. It’s an outdoor baseball diamond next to the school. There are local officials, school administrators, parents, and kids.
Thorne is positioned near the entrance to the field, scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of someone who’s cataloged every exit and identified every potential threat.
He nods once as we approach. “Perimeter secure. I’ve got two drones on radar. One’s press credentialed. The other was of unknown origin... local authorities grounded it.”
“Xavier?”
“Arrived moments before you. He’s staying at the periphery. We’ve already given him a warning. He can watch but not engage.”
Of course he’s here. The bastard wants to see me perform. Wants to evaluate my public image so he knows exactly how to destroy it.
I smooth my jacket and step into the crowd.
For the next hour, I’m the version of myself that the foundation needs me to be. Charming. Approachable. Genuinely passionate about education access.
I shake hands with teachers. I talk to kids about their favorite subjects.
I pose for photos with the new computers that will be installed next week.
It’s the same skill set I use to close funding rounds: read the audience, find the hook, make them feel part of something bigger.
The mechanics are identical even if the mission isn’t, and I can’t decide if that makes me effective or just well-practiced at manipulation.
Amara stays at my side, smiling for the cameras, playing the role of professional colleague with flawless precision. Only I notice the tension in her shoulders. Only I see the way her eyes track Xavier’s position at the edge of the gathering.
She’s magnificent, honestly. A natural performer when she needs to be. It makes me wonder what else she’s been hiding beneath that controlled exterior.
The press eats it up. Headlines are already forming in my mind.
“Saelinger Foundation Invests in Eleuthera’s Future.”
“Billionaire Philanthropist Champions Island Education.”
Exactly the narrative I need.
And yet I feel like an asshole.
Because every handshake is both genuine and strategic. Every photo is authentic and calculated. The money will help real families, and I’m also using it as a shield against a scandal I didn’t cause but can’t seem to escape.
This is what philanthropy looks like when you’re desperate.
Fuck.
After the formal presentation, I notice Xavier watching from near the parking area. He raises his coffee cup in a mock salute. Then he climbs into his car and drives away.
Fucker.
Well, he got what he came for, I suppose.
Reconnaissance complete.
Thorne appears at my elbow. “Extraction route is clear. Keon’s staged near the service entrance.”
“Let’s go,” I tell him.
Amara and I slip away while the crowd is still mingling.
Keon drives the long way home. Sable follows at a distance.
We’re ten minutes into the drive when Amara finally speaks. “You’re using charity as a shield.”
There it is.
So it does bother her, after all.
Maybe I should’ve asked her on the drive after all.
I could’ve called it off..
No.
I refuse to second guess myself.
I needed this.
I look at her and sigh. “If I don’t control the narrative, Xavier will.”
“And what happens when the truth comes out anyway?” She’s not looking at me. Just staring out the window at the passing landscape. “When people realize the timing wasn’t coincidental?”
I don’t have an answer.
She lets the silence stretch. Then: “The donation was real. The impact will be real. But you did it for the wrong reasons. You’re still hiding, Corin. Just with better PR.”
She’s not wrong.
I felt like an asshole during the entire dog-and-pony show.
And that should tell me everything I need to know.
Back at The Westlight, I retreat to my study while Amara disappears into the guest office with her latest stack of archived documents from the clinic. She’s been systematically working through everything, cross-referencing digital records with paper files, looking for any inconsistencies.
I should be helping.
Instead I’m staring at my laptop, answering emails from Noemi about board meeting schedules and trying not to think about how this whole thing could collapse.
It’s almost eight when I hear her shout.
Not a scream.
Not distress.
Excitement.
I’m out of my chair and moving before I consciously decide to. When I reach the guest office, Amara is standing at the desk with a stack of yellowed pages spread in front of her. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed.
“Found something!” she says.
I cross the room in three strides. “What?”
She holds up a document. It’s old and creased.
Some kind of financial ledger from the look of it.
“This was buried in the paper archives from the foundation’s early years.
Before your current accounting system. Someone either forgot it existed or assumed no one would ever check the physical records. ”
I take the page and scan it. My stomach drops.
It’s a ledger entry showing fund transfers to a shell company. The company name doesn’t match anything in our official records. But the authorization signature at the bottom is unmistakable.
Xavier Laurent.
“This is from six years ago,” Amara continues.
Her words are coming fast now. “Back when Xavier was still on the board. Before the scandal with Diana Castellane. Before any of the current mess. Xavier was moving money through unauthorized channels years before you even knew there was a problem. He’s been planning this for years. ”
I set the page down carefully, like it might explode. “He wasn’t just covering up Diana’s fraud. He was running his own grand scheme.”
“He’s been playing the long game.” Amara grabs her legal pad and starts writing. “This shell company probably feeds into the same network he’s using now for the land purchases. If we can trace the ownership structure, prove the continuity between then and now...”
“We’ve got him,” I declare.
She looks up at me with a fierce expression.
“We’ve got a start. I need to cross-reference this with the current shell companies, see if I can find the connecting threads.
But Corin, this is real evidence. Not forged documents we have to disprove.
It’s an actual paper trail showing his pattern of fraud going back years. ”
“The board will eat him alive if we can find those connections,” I murmur.
I watch her work in awe. Watch her number the pages in her personal shorthand, annotate the margins, build her case with the focused intensity of someone who was born for this.
She’s not just helping me survive.
She’s hunting.
And God help me, watching her is the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.
“We can win this,” she says, looking up. “We can actually win now. Before, I’d have called it a toss-up. But now...”
I want to believe her. Want to let myself hope that maybe this nightmare has an ending where I don’t lose everything.
But I’ve been in this game long enough to know that finding evidence is only half the battle. The other half is surviving long enough to use it.
And Xavier Laurent has never been the type to go down without a fight.
“He’s going to escalate,” I say quietly. “Once he realizes we’re getting close.”
Amara nods. Her expression doesn’t waver. “Then we move faster. Escalate, before he does.”
She returns to her documents, and I stand there watching her work, feeling something dangerous growing inside me.
Something I’m not quite ready to name.