Chapter 2
The car's heater battled the Alaskan cold while Ivy Lambourne stared out the passenger window at the endless snowy wilderness. After more than twenty hours of travel, the silence and scale of Alaska made the Lambourne estate feel like a garden plot.
“Magnificent country,” George’s voice boomed in the confined space beside her, his enthusiasm undimmed by jet lag or the daunting task ahead of them. “Wait until we hit the coast—that’s where the real show starts.”
Ivy nodded absently, her mind already calculating transport costs, weather delays, and permit timelines, while her brother waxed poetic about the adventure of it all.
He was already sketching out their Alaskan future—comparing the landscape to the Scottish Highlands, spinning out revenue plans, dropping names she hadn’t even known were on their contact list. He could conjure profit out of fog, and people believed him.
But someone had to run the numbers, and that someone was always her.
She shifted, shoulders already sore from the flight. The spreadsheets were building themselves behind her eyes—projected costs, break-even timelines, contingency plans. All of it riding on this one deal.
Two years since their father’s funeral—since she’d packed up her life in London, walked away from her dream job, and stepped back into a house full of debt, cracked stonework, and five hundred years of expectations.
George skimmed messages on his phone. “Sounds like the mayor’s pulling out all the stops for us. You know how Americans love a show.”
Ivy schooled a smile. People gravitated toward George’s confidence, his infectious laugh, his ability to make them feel like they were part of something important.
She’d learned to be quiet around him. It was easier that way, more efficient.
George charmed the investors while she handled the technical details that would actually make or break their venture.
But sometimes, in liminal moments like this—driving past bare black spruce toward Aurora Cove—she wondered where her life might be if she'd made different choices. If she'd stayed in London. Taken that position in Dubai. Chosen her career over duty.
The landscape outside blurred. She rubbed her eyes, trying to find focus. Her pulse thudded in her temples, the weight of five centuries pressing against her shoulders.
Somewhere out there was their financial salvation—an investment in oil that could generate enough revenue to keep seventy-five tenant families in their homes and preserve five hundred years of Lambourne legacy.
And she had to make it work.
“Nearly there,” George announced, checking his watch. “I hope whatever the mayor has planned won’t take too long. You look done in, Ivy.”
She straightened in her seat, ignoring the gritty burn in her eyes and the tremor of anxiety in her chest. “I’m fine. Just thinking through the geological surveys we'll need to review.”
Because that’s what she did.
While George saw opportunity in the sweeping vistas, Ivy was already noting access points, weather exposure, and the number of permits they'd need before touching a drop of oil.
By this time next year, without this deal, the estate that had weathered wars and depressions would be carved up by developers, seventy-five families displaced, and five centuries of Lambourne history erased like footprints in sand.
And if this oil venture failed, if she couldn’t make the numbers work, the weight of that failure would fall squarely on her shoulders.
The rest of the drive passed in relative silence, George finally occupied with his phone while Ivy watched the landscape shift to more industrial. When their driver turned into Aurora Cove Regional Heliport twenty minutes later, her stomach dropped.
A helicopter. Of course it was a helicopter.
More flying.
All she wanted was to check into her hotel, peel off her travel-grubby clothes, and soak in hot water up to her eyeballs.
While she gathered the energy to unbuckle her seatbelt, George had already launched himself from the car, arms flung wide like he’d just stepped into a frontier epic. “Alaska! Isn’t it glorious?”
The moment she stepped outside, the cold snatched the breath from her lungs.
Her heels slipped on the icy concrete but she caught herself on the car door.
Wind sliced through her thin slacks, slapped her cheeks raw, and made her eyes sting.
She tugged her coat tighter as it flapped uselessly against another gust.
How did people live here? How did they function in temperatures that turned the simple act of breathing into a battle?
“There’s Mayor Patterson!” George’s voice carried easily over the wind as he strode toward a heavyset man in a thick parka who was waiting near the heliport’s main building.
George shook the mayor’s hand with both of his, leaning in like they were old friends.
Within seconds, the two were laughing over something Ivy hadn’t caught, their breath fogging the air between them.
Ivy hurried after them, her heels threatening to send her flying on the treacherous ground. If she’d known they’d be heading straight into negotiations, she would have worn something more practical—
“Mayor Patterson, may I present my sister, Lady Ivy,” George said with a flourish.
Ivy resisted the urge to wince. He always did that—the title, the flourish—making her sound more important than she felt.
George beamed. “She’s the brains behind our entire operation. Ives, this is Walt Patterson.”
The mayor’s handshake was firm and warm despite the cold. “George has told me so much about your engineering expertise. We’re lucky to have someone with your background considering our oil prospects.”
“Please, just Ivy—”
“Of course.” The mayor was already beckoning them toward the building. “Come on, let’s get you folks out of this wind. I’ve got quite the tour arranged for you.”
The moment they stepped inside, blessed warmth enveloped her, along with the distinctive tang of aviation fuel and motor oil. Her cheeks smarted as blood rushed back to her face, fingertips prickling painfully as they thawed.
The heliport’s interior was functional rather than elegant—concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, and the background hum of machinery. But after the brutal cold outside, it was paradise.
“Now, I know you’re probably tired from traveling,” Mayor Patterson was saying to George, “but before we can move forward with new drilling permits, the Coast Guard requires all principal investors to complete a maritime safety briefing. It’s standard federal procedure.
They’ll walk you through evacuation protocols, emergency drills, rig locations—everything you’d be liable for once you invest. Better to get it out of the way now before it delays permitting down the line. ”
Ivy was only half-listening, her mind already calculating if she could reschedule this tour for tomorrow when she might feel human again. She opened her mouth to suggest they reschedule, but then—movement across the hangar floor caught her eye.
“Ah there’s Ryder and Wyatt.” The mayor nodded toward two approaching figures.
A man in a Coast Guard flight suit strode across the hangar, cutting through the noise like he owned the floor. Behind him, a second man—taller, dark-haired, with guarded eyes.
But it was the first who made her breath catch.
He was over six feet tall, shoulders broad enough to fill out the flight suit, his stride relaxed, comfortable in his body. Dirty-blond hair brushed his collar—a shade too long for regulation, but clearly no one called him on it.
And his eyes—blue, impassive, the kind that had seen the worst and didn't flinch.
They swept over her—once. Took in the heels, the thin coat, the exhaustion she couldn't hide. Then dismissed her as if she were background noise.
A tourist in heels.
His gaze flicked from her to George, then back again—cool and uninterested.
She’d crossed three time zones, risked frostbite in heels, and still didn’t register as worth a nod.
Excellent.
Just a tightening of his jaw and a flash of something that looked a lot like irritation. Like he’d been ordered to escort a pair of over-privileged tourists and was already regretting it.
The sting was instant and irrational. But it still burned, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the temperature change. Her shoulders tensed, jaw clenching tight enough to make her temples throb.
Breathe, Ivy. Don’t react.
Six years of boarding school etiquette stopped her from rolling her eyes, but barely. She straightened, smoothing the front of her coat as if that could erase twenty-plus hours of travel and endless cups of bad airport coffee.
She’d keep her mouth shut, and get through this briefing. Let George charm them while she did the actual work.
Just like always.