Chapter 5
The rig groaned beneath his boots—barely perceptible, but constant. A reminder that the sea never stopped trying to reclaim what didn’t belong.
Ivy didn’t belong here either. But she hadn’t figured that out yet.
Loose hair danced around her face as she pulled his jacket tighter against the lacerating chill.
The reception committee was exactly what he’d expected—five men in suits and thick parkas topped with yellow hard hats.
They approached with handshakes and hearty greetings, all directed toward George and Walt. Ivy might as well have been invisible.
“Your Grace. I’m Matthew Sinclair. It’s a pleasure.” The lead executive—a silver-haired man with too much cologne and not enough subtlety—pumped George’s hand. “Welcome to Deepwater Vega. We are delighted that you are considering investing in our offshore operations.”
“Indeed,” George returned the vigorous handshake, beaming. “My sister Ivy here is handling the technical aspects of any potential partnership.”
Sinclair barely glanced at Ivy—offering a smile Ryder guessed was usually reserved for decorative girlfriends and bored dignitaries.
“Of course. How lovely.” Sinclair’s tone—he’d heard it before.
Usually at fundraisers or briefings, where people saw only the quiet Coast Guard medic in the room, never guessing he’d once been a SEAL and could do a hell of a lot more than patch up boat scrapes.
Most didn’t know he’d been a SEAL once—his road to the Coast Guard hadn’t been typical. But underestimation had a way of waking the old instincts.
And that’s what Sinclair was doing to Ivy. It hit Ryder wrong because he knew exactly how that felt. And as much as he hated to admit it, she didn’t deserve it.
Ivy stepped forward and extended her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.” Her accent was cut-glass. “I understand you’re the project lead on the BlackRock expansion. I’ve reviewed your environmental impact assessments and your preliminary cost analysis. Impressive work.”
Sinclair’s handshake was perfunctory. “I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.”
She paused, her gaze level. “I do have questions about your deepwater anchoring systems—specifically, their impact on local fishing grounds. The people who depend on those waters for their livelihood need their voice to be heard too.”
Sinclair’s smile didn’t waver, but he blinked twice. “Naturally. Though I’m sure you understand that large-scale industrial operations require certain accommodations.”
“Accommodations,” Ivy repeated with enough edge to slice. “Yes, I’m familiar with the concept. What I’m less familiar with is why those accommodations always seem to crush the people who can least afford them.”
Damn. Ryder made appreciative eye contact with Wyatt as subtle tension flowed through the group of executives.
She wasn’t backing down. If anything, she was leaning in.
“Shall we head inside?” Sinclair suggested with a wave of a fat-fingered hand. “I think you’ll find our presentation quite comprehensive.”
The meeting room was all glass and steel, designed to showcase the industrial power visible through every window. Ryder took position near the back wall, far enough away to avoid interfering. This was her show.
Ivy claimed a seat at the front of the conference table, pulled a tablet from her bag, and waited with the patience of someone who knew exactly how valuable her attention was.
The presentation began with flowcharts and profit projections, sanitized numbers that made environmental destruction look like progress. Sinclair and his team focused on George, tossing Ivy the occasional glance—like they were checking if she was still keeping up.
She was doing more than that.
“Your projected timeline shows first oil in six months,” Ivy interrupted, cutting into the discussion about infrastructure costs. “But your environmental compliance documentation suggests a twelve-month minimum for impact mitigation. How do you reconcile that gap?”
Silence rippled through the room—the wind buffeting the windows where words should have been.
Sinclair paused, his laser pointer frozen mid-gesture. “I’m sorry?”
“The discrepancy,” Ivy gestured to the numbers illuminated on the wall screen. “Either your environmental timeline is inaccurate, or your production timeline is optimistic. Both represent a significant fiscal risk for any potential investors.”
One of the younger executives leaned forward. “Ma’am, these projections have been reviewed by our legal team—”
“I’m sure they have,” Ivy smiled with no apology. “But legal compliance and operational reality aren’t always the same thing. I’ve seen enough projects fail because someone prioritized ambition over logistics.”
Ryder folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. Well.
So much for the frost. Under pressure, she’d brought fire.
He’d have gone straight for the throat, called them on their bullshit. Instead, she was dismantling their entire argument piece by piece, making them prove themselves to her.
Wyatt let out a low chuckle beside him. “Wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
Even the hum of the machinery seemed to wait for Sinclair’s answer.
Finally, Sinclair looked up from the notes he’d been taking. “You seem well informed. May I ask about your background in offshore operations?”
“Structural engineering,” Ivy replied without missing a beat.
“Cambridge, then Oxford for my graduate work. I assure you, gentlemen, I’m not here for optics.
I’m here to ensure this investment serves all parties—including the seventy-five tenant families who depend on us to keep the Lambourne estate solvent.
” Her voice didn’t waver, but her fingers curled around the edge of her tablet.
“The land my family owns has been in our name for five hundred years. I intend to keep it—not by hoarding wealth, but by making sure it still looks after the people who live there and care for it.”
Families. The word hit like a rogue wave.
Not yacht maintenance. Not polo ponies. People.
Real ones. Just like Ellie depended on him.
Tingles covered his back. She'd just proven she wasn't here to rubber-stamp the investment.
The community she'd mentioned—those seventy-five families—she actually meant it.
The meeting continued for another half hour, but the dynamic had altered.
The executives were asking her opinion, deferring to her expertise, treating her like exactly what she was—someone whose approval they needed.
George beamed with obvious pride, but stayed mostly quiet, letting his sister handle the technicalities.
When they finally stood to begin the rig tour, Sinclair took the lead. “Ivy, George, if you’ll follow me, I think you’ll find our drilling operations quite impressive.”
“I’m sure I will,” she replied, pulling her hard hat back on.
Ryder made eye contact with her, and for a moment something passed between them. She was still wearing his jacket. Oversized and out of place next to business suits and hard hats, but she hadn’t taken it off. Hadn’t even suggested giving it back.
She caught him looking and tilted her chin.
Not cold. Not coy. A quiet challenge.
Like she dared him to take the jacket back.
His mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile, gone before it could betray him.
But outside, he fell into step beside her.
Not because she needed guarding, but because he suddenly needed to see what she’d do next.