Chapter 13
T he room is supposed to be casual.
That much is clear from the leather armchairs arranged around the glass-top coffee table, the open bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and the expansive view of the Calloway estate’s pristine lawn through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
But it doesn’t feel casual.
Not with the tension thick enough to strangle.
Mr. Calloway sits at the head of the informal gathering, nursing a glass of scotch as he leans back, completely at ease. He has the comfortable air of a man who owns everything in the room—including the men sitting in it.
To his right, Marcus occupies an armchair, equally relaxed, but I can tell he’s assessing the room the same way I am.
And then there’s Adrian Kingston.
The nephew.
The wildcard.
I don’t let my expression betray anything as I study him. He’s dressed the part—expensive loafers, tailored slacks, and a crisp button-down rolled up at the sleeves to feign effortlessness. But effortlessness isn’t something you can buy, and his brand of casual reeks of trying too hard.
I’ve seen men like him before.
Men who want to be important but don’t have the spine or the skill to get there.
He’s a parasite. The kind that latches onto something greater because he knows he’ll never build anything of his own.
The introductions are brief, and I offer a firm handshake, gripping just a little harder than necessary when he clasps mine. A test. A challenge.
Adrian meets my eyes with a smirk. He already knows who I am. He already doesn’t like me.
Good.
The feeling is mutual.
“Damien Wolfe,” he drawls as he leans back, spreading his arms across the chair like he owns the place. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise,” I reply smoothly, though we both know that’s not true. I didn’t bother learning his name until this morning, which is probably more thought than anyone else has given him.
Mr. Calloway, oblivious to the silent battle taking place, gestures toward the drinks on the table. “Pour yourself something, boys. This weekend is about relaxing and business.”
Marcus reaches for the decanter, pouring himself a two-finger glass of whiskey before offering it to me. I wave him off.
“Not for me.”
Adrian’s eyes gleam like he’s already found his first foothold. “Ah. Too disciplined for a drink? Or worried you’ll lose your edge?”
The corners of my mouth twitch, but I keep my tone measured. “I don’t need whiskey to sharpen my game.”
Calloway chuckles, clearly amused, while Adrian tilts his head, still smirking like we’re old friends.
The meeting begins, and for the first few minutes, it runs smoothly.
Calloway lays out his expectations, Marcus backs up our due diligence, and I present key points on why the merger is the best move for his company’s expansion.
And then Adrian starts talking.
At first, it’s subtle. A casual question here, a comment there, all under the guise of curiosity. But I see it for what it is—a slow, deliberate attempt to plant doubt.
“That’s an optimistic projection,” he muses, studying one of the reports we provided. “I’d love to see the analytics that back it up.”
“You have them in front of you,” I reply smoothly. “Page sixteen details the revenue forecast with a conservative projection alongside it.”
He flips a few pages with exaggerated slowness. “Mmm. Even the conservative number seems ambitious.”
“It’s not. The industry trends are favorable, and with the increased market share this merger provides, the growth trajectory is well within reason.”
Adrian hums like he’s unconvinced. “Still… even with the right market conditions, the timing is aggressive.”
“It has to be,” I counter. “There’s a small window to capitalize on these shifts before competitors move in. The sooner we finalize this deal, the better positioned Calloway Holdings will be.”
He nods, considering, before turning to Mr. Calloway. “I assume you’re comfortable with moving this fast? It’s not rushed in your opinion?”
The bait is so obvious it’s insulting, but it works.
Calloway leans back, stroking his chin. “I trust Damien’s strategy, but it’s a fair question. We are moving quickly. What’s your response to that, Wolfe?”
Adrian hides his smirk behind his glass of bourbon.
Motherfucker.
I inhale through my nose, keeping my expression cool. “The timeline is aggressive because it needs to be. Calloway Holdings stands to make an additional fifteen percent ROI if we close before the next quarterly shift. If we hesitate, we lose leverage. If we lose leverage, we lose money. Period.”
Calloway nods at that, but Adrian isn’t done.
“I’m just saying, caution isn’t a bad thing. There’s a reason checks and balances exist,” he continues. “After all, I imagine you’d hate to jump into a commitment prematurely and realize it wasn’t what you signed up for.”
I feel like there’s a double meaning there, and my mind immediately runs to my contract with Elena.
My grip tightens around the armrest.
I remind myself that I don’t know what his game is yet, and there’s no way he could know about my arrangement with her.
The pointed look from Marcus is a reminder that I can’t rip his fucking throat out in the middle of a business meeting.
So I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “The difference, Kingston, is that I don’t hesitate when I see a good deal.”
Adrian’s smirk twitches. He wasn’t expecting me to flip it on him so fast.
“Now,” I continue, redirecting the conversation back to Calloway, “if we’re ready to proceed, I’d like to go over the next steps for closing.”
Calloway leans back, stroking his chin.
I wait.
Finally, he nods. “Agreed. Let’s move forward.”
But something lingers in his expression.
Not hesitation.
Something worse.
Doubt.
It’s gone as fast as it appeared, but I saw it. And so did Adrian. Because the smug fucker has the audacity to smirk into his glass like he just won the first round.
But Adrian will soon realize I won’t be as easy to undermine as he thinks.
Because I love a game of chess.
And he just sat down at the board with a fucking master.
H ours have passed.
The meeting dragged through lunch and into the late afternoon, and while the setting may have remained polished and refined, the undercurrents of tension only deepened.
Lunch had been served on the terrace—an immaculate spread of fresh seafood, chilled salads, and perfectly aged wines. An indulgence meant to suggest an atmosphere of ease. But the constant rounds of back-and-forth with Adrian made it anything but.
He never let up.
Every time I thought we’d moved past his concerns, he found a new one to introduce. A minor clause in the contracts. A logistical challenge that wasn’t a challenge at all. A hypothetical risk so far-fetched it was laughable, yet each time, he managed to plant just enough hesitation in Calloway’s mind to keep the conversation going.
By the time the meeting is officially adjourned, I’m two seconds from walking Adrian out to the ocean and seeing if he can swim his way back to New York.
I don’t let my frustration show as Marcus and I take our leave, excusing ourselves with the polite, practiced ease of men who have been in these rooms for years.
We walk back toward the bungalows, the sun dipping lower in the sky, the scent of salt and citrus riding the warm summer breeze. The estate is quiet in the distance, but my mind is anything but.
Something about this doesn’t sit right.
I can feel it.
I keep my gaze forward as I speak. “I want you to dig into Kingston.”
Marcus snorts. “I’m offended you think I haven’t been already. We both knew his interjection this late in the game spelled trouble.”
“How deep?” he asks casually, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“As deep as it takes,” I reply, my voice flat. “I don’t give a damn if you have to go back to the day he was born. I want to know everything—his history, his investments, his failures. Find out who he owes money to and who he was fucking in college.”
Marcus hums, considering. “You think he’s trying to sabotage the merger?”
“I know he is,” I say darkly, jaw tightening. “I just don’t know how yet.”
Because this isn’t just some arrogant prick trying to flex his influence.
This is strategic. Calculated.
A man like Adrian Kingston doesn’t insert himself into a billion-dollar deal at the last second without a reason.
He’s not here to observe.
He’s not here to help his dear old Uncle Calloway.
He’s working an angle.
I just don’t know what the hell it is yet.
Marcus exhales sharply. “I’ll get our best guys on it.”
“Good,” I say, my voice cold, clipped.
For the first time in a long time, I have a feeling I’m playing defense instead of offense.
And I don’t fucking like it.
I stretch my neck to each side, my eyes flicking back toward the main house.
Calloway isn’t a fool. He’s built an empire on knowing when to trust and when to question.
So why the hell is he entertaining this?
Does he actually trust Adrian?
Or is he using him?
Watching. Waiting. Testing me.
Or is Adrian bringing in another buyer who thinks they have more to offer than me?
If that’s the case, then I need to be careful. Because if Calloway thinks Adrian has a point, I have more than just a deal to lose.
I don’t break stride as I push open the door to the bungalow, stepping inside and scanning the open space automatically.
Elena isn’t in the living room.
But I hear soft movement from the guest room.
I take my time.
Rolling my sleeves up as I walk toward the guest room, I tell myself it’s just business. That I’m only going to check in.
I lean against the doorframe and find Elena sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone. Her hair is damp from a shower, the loose fabric of her silk camisole slipping slightly over one shoulder.
She looks up, eyes catching mine, and for a second—just a second—there’s something easy in the air.
Something that doesn’t belong here.
Something that feels a little too much like a routine we’ve done a thousand times. Me coming home from a long day of work. Elena, ready to hear about it while she tells me about her day.
Something I need to push to the back of my mind and bury.
“How’d it go?” she asks, tucking her phone away.
“Fine,” I say automatically.
Her brow lifts, unconvinced. “Liar.”
The corner of my mouth quirks before I catch myself.
I exhale, stepping into the room, sliding my hands into my pockets. “It was a waste of time. Adrian’s an arrogant little shit with just enough access to be dangerous.”
She hums, shifting slightly on the bed. “What’s his angle?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
I don’t know why I say it out loud.
I don’t usually think aloud, and I sure as hell don’t unpack meetings with anyone who isn’t on my payroll.
But Elena just watches me, waiting.
Unrushed.
Unbothered by the sharp edges of my mood.
And I realize—I fucking like that.
I rub a hand down my jaw, exhaling slowly. “He’s not just here to observe. He wants control. Whether it’s over Calloway or the deal itself, I don’t know yet. But he’s playing a long game, and I don’t intend to let him win.”
Elena tilts her head slightly, thoughtful. “Men like him don’t play unless they think they already have an advantage.”
I glance at her, curious despite myself. “And what do you think that is?”
She shifts again, tucking a leg under herself. “Leverage.”
My silence must encourage her, because she continues.
“If I were guessing, I’d say he’s new to the boardroom, but he’s not new to the art of manipulation. He’s testing boundaries, finding weaknesses. If he sees an opening, he’ll exploit it. But he wouldn’t be here—wouldn’t be this confident—unless he already believes he has something on you.”
I watch her carefully.
I like the way her mind works.
How easily she reads people.
But there’s something else—something unspoken—hanging between us.
If I were Adrian Kingston, I’d realize the biggest advantage in this game is sitting right here in front of me.
And that means I need to keep an eye on Elena—especially where he’s concerned. I won’t give him the chance to get any ideas that involve Elena, let alone an opportunity to act on them.
I push off the doorframe, rolling my shoulders again. “I’ll figure it out.”
Elena studies me for a beat longer before exhaling.
“You should eat something.”
I blink. “What?”
She nods toward the kitchen. “There was a charcuterie board in the fridge when I got back. You’ve been in that meeting for hours. Food won’t kill you.”
I huff a quiet breath, more amused than I should be. “Are you giving me orders now?”
Elena tilts her head, considering. “Technically, you’re the boss of this arrangement. But I get paid to take care of you, don’t I?”
A short, surprised laugh escapes me.
She watches me for a second, then smirks.
“Go eat, Wolfe.”
I shake my head, lingering just a little longer than I should. “You’re awfully persistent.”
“And yet,” she calls as I turn back toward the kitchen, “here you are, listening to me anyway.”
She’s not wrong.
And that bothers me more than I’m willing to admit.