Chapter 11
Ivy paused just inside the diner’s outer door as Ryder’s truck rumbled away, taillights engulfed by fat flakes of fresh snow. Off into the dark, into seas that cracked steel and swallowed crews whole—yet he’d go anyway, shoulders squared against storms most men would never set foot in.
She hadn’t realized men like him still existed. Men who didn’t expect anything in return. Somewhere tonight, desperate voices would call for help, and Ryder would be the answer.
A shiver ran down her spine. Not fear—comfort. If she were the one stranded out there, she couldn’t imagine a more welcome sight than him hauling her back to safety.
But the comfort frayed at the edges. Men who ran into storms didn’t always come back.
She took a deep breath, searching for calm and failed.
Her wrist was still warm where his fingers had closed around it.
She replayed the low rumble of his voice.
Do you ever let anyone else share the load?
For a heartbeat, it was like storm clouds breaking, sunlight striking places inside her no one ever touched.
He’d seen her. Not the title. Not the duties.
Just me.
Terrifying. Glorious.
She’d been seconds from saying the words out loud. And the way he’d looked at her—as if he already understood.
Ivy yanked her coat from the hook near the door, shaking her head hard, as if she could scatter the thought. None of this was real. They lived on opposite sides of the globe. She was here for days, not years. She had work to do, people depending on her. That came first. It always did.
Out in the icy night, she trudged back to the inn. Warm, foggy air enveloped her as she stepped into the hotel elevator, scarf dripping, gloves clenched in her hand. Meltwater soaked her hair, plastering it to her scalp. She scrubbed at her face, willing herself back under control.
Don’t think about his touch. Don’t think about the concern in his eyes.
But the thoughts remained anyway, stubborn as the cold.
No one looked at her like that. People only looked at her when they needed something—answers, solutions, decisions.
Like George.
The elevator whirred upward, memories of the afternoon meeting pressing in.
She’d pushed for data that hadn’t been forthcoming, and the whole thing had ground to a halt.
Sinclair’s team had been frustrated, George even more so—but there was too much at risk to let it slide.
She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to protect the people depending on her back home.
The elevator dinged. She stepped into the hall, her shoulders heavy, her room just ahead. Card in the slot, a green light blinked. The lock clicked open.
“Ivy.”
She turned.
George stood in his doorway, tie loosened, shadows under his eyes. He beckoned with his hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”
“George, I’m tired—”
“It won’t take a minute. Come in. Sinclair’s here.” His brows lifted, his gaze holding hers, unspoken words filling the space between them: If this falls apart, we lose everything.
He wasn’t wrong. And yet—
She slid the key back into her pocket and flashed him a bright smile, her jaw stiff with the effort. “Of course.”
Inside his suite was dim. Only the floor lamps were on, casting golden pools across the red-flowered carpet. The air was heavy with whiskey and expensive aftershave.
Sinclair rose from the maroon velvet couch, a glass of something dark in his hand. Ice clinked as he extended his free hand. “Lady Ivy. So glad you could join us. I was just sharing some exciting news with your brother.”
His hand was cool, soft with money. Nothing like Ryder’s, roughened by rope burn and sea salt, hands that worked for a living. Her palm felt wrong after touching Sinclair’s.
“Mr. Sinclair.”
“I think we can be less formal. Please—call me Matthew.”
As if.
She gave the smallest nod. “Matthew.” She lowered herself into the chair opposite, while George stayed on his feet, restless, as if his body couldn’t quite contain his nerves.
The storm outside scoured the glass, its low howl crawling beneath her skin. She couldn’t shake the thought of Ryder in that same storm, hauling strangers out of the dark. A man who ran headfirst into danger by choice.
And here she was, sitting across from a man with manicured hands and too-easy answers.
“Shall I tell her, or shall you?” Sinclair’s smile was all polish.
George sank into the couch, leaning forward, arms braced on his knees. “Matthew’s just shown me the scans from the Vega. They’ve found a new pocket. It’s rich, Ivy. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. This could save everything—our home, the estate, the families depending on us.”
“Indeed.” Sinclair’s voice was too smooth. “An opportunity we didn’t see coming. Confirmed in our latest seismic survey. And I wanted you to hear it first. The return could be significant.”
Ivy dragged a hand through her damp hair. “And this has only just come to your attention?”
Sinclair tipped his glass back, unbothered. “BlackRock carries out surveys regularly—it’s what we do. Sometimes the sea surprises us. This time, in the best possible way.”
“What about the environmental impact?” She rubbed the tender spot between her eyes. “Who’s been told?”
A glance flicked between Sinclair and George.
“That’s why Matthew is here,” George rushed in. “This pocket is new. As part of the established field, disclosure isn’t required. We can take over the rig and tap it. Make our money. But time—”
“Is running out.” Sinclair uncrossed his legs and tugged at his pant leg with his fingers. “There are other investors sniffing around, of course. But you and your brother—you’re the right fit. That’s why I came to you first.”
George’s laced fingers whitened. “If we wait, the regulators will kill it. You know how they are—every delay, every new rule. We’ll lose our chance, Ivy.”
Ivy bit back the words crowding her tongue.
There were other paths—slower, harder, but real.
She’d been reading about the tidal projects in Cook Inlet, how the sea’s raw force could be harnessed without gutting the seabed.
Energy for communities. Stability that didn’t rot the ground beneath their feet.
But George wouldn’t want to hear that. Not tonight.
Her teeth met under pressure as she searched for a calm tone. “Those restrictions exist because people get hurt when they’re ignored.”
“I know. But what about the families?” George’s hands rose, placating. “The livelihoods tied to us? What happens to them if we turn this away?”
“The people who live here are just as dependent on how the oil is managed.” She held his panicked gaze. “We can’t sacrifice one for the other.”
“No one’s suggesting that, Ives.” George’s voice cracked with weariness. “The rig already has permission to drill.”
Ivy leaned back, fingers digging into the armrest. “How convenient,” she said evenly. “That a discovery like this surfaces just as we start asking about missing reports.”
George let out a shaky breath instead of a laugh, his shoulders high against his neck. “Forty million barrels, Ivy. That’s enough to save everything. Don’t you see? It could keep Lambourne afloat for decades.” His eyes shone, half-hopeful, half-desperate.
“Strange that none of the baseline surveys flagged an anomaly of that size.” Her heart raced. “A pocket that rich doesn’t just hide in plain sight.”
Sinclair’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. The silence that followed said more than his rehearsed grin ever could. He smoothed it over with a chuckle. “Technology improves. Equipment catches things we didn’t before. That’s progress.”
The storm shook the windows, sending a deep shudder through the walls, as if the whole room were straining to hold. The whiskey smell seemed thicker now, cloying, Sinclair’s voice too glossy against the wild outside.
George shifted, restless. “Ivy, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
She ignored him, heartbeat regular now. “I’m sure BlackRock won’t mind sharing the full geological scans. All of them. Not summaries. Not projections. The raw data.”
Silence pulsed through the room.
Sinclair’s smile stayed fixed, but his dark eyes tracked her like a shark. “You’re asking the right questions, Lady Ivy. Careful, though—questions have a way of scaring off opportunity.”
The whisky-sweet air nipped the back of her throat.
Ryder’s voice echoed—What does your gut tell you?
Her pulse thudded once, hard, in answer.
She pushed to her feet, shoulders back, meeting Sinclair’s gaze without flinching. “Send the data. Until then, there’s no deal.”
George groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Ivy—please. You can’t just walk away from this. Not when it’s right in front of us.”
But she was already moving toward the door. Her damp sleeve clung to her wrist as she smoothed it down, forcing her hand to look steady when her pulse was anything but.
“Goodnight. George. Matthew.”
The storm clawed at the glass behind her. Whatever BlackRock was hiding, it was already breaking loose.
Sinclair might fool George.
He might fool everyone else.
But he wouldn’t fool her.