Chapter 30
Snow swirled around Ivy, every step crunching through a fresh layer that hadn’t been there last night.
Ryder was right.
Her coat was too thin for this weather—she’d packed for business meetings, not Alaska in winter. She wished she still had his jacket, the one he’d loaned her that first day when the cold had cut deep.
The memory of last night re-surfaced. His dirty blond hair, the gentleness with which he touched her, the vulnerability in his eyes. How he’d taken care of her in a way no one ever had and how he softened around his daughter and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.
This man who saw her.
God help her, she was falling for him. Had already fallen, if she was being honest with herself.
But there was no time to think about Ryder right now, no time to figure out what any of it meant or how they’d bridge an ocean when she had to stop George from making the biggest mistake of his life.
She pulled out her phone and tried George’s number again. It rang four times before going to voicemail.
“George, it’s me. Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s urgent. About BlackRock.” She ended the call and kept walking, her boots leaving tracks in the virgin snow.
At the hotel, the woman behind the front desk looked up with a practiced smile. “Miss Lambourne. There’s a message for you.”
Ivy’s pulse jumped. “From my brother?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman handed over a folded piece of hotel stationery.
Ivy unfolded it, George’s familiar scrawl filling the page:
Ives,
In meetings all afternoon finalizing with BlackRock. Everything looking good. Catch up at dinner.
George xx
Her stomach sank. Everything looking good. Because he didn’t know. Didn’t know about the methane hydrates, the falsified surveys—the bomb waiting to go off under their investment.
The desk clerk’s voice broke in. “Everything alright?”
“Fine, thank you.” Ivy forced a smile and headed for the elevator, gripping the note until it crumpled.
Nobody listened. Story of her life.
In her room, she plugged in her phone to charge and paced. Through the window, Aurora Cove looked quiet and safe—an illusion. Somewhere out there, George was shaking hands with men who were lying to his face.
Her phone rang. She lunged for it.
“George, thank God—”
“Sorry, Ives, can’t talk long. We’re just heading into another session.” His tone was brisk, distracted. “What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“Conference room somewhere in the complex.” He sounded vague. “Sinclair arranged everything.”
“I need to talk to you about BlackRock. Henderson verified—”
“Henderson? Who’s Henderson?” A sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Look, Ivy, please tell me you’re not chasing ghosts again. The data’s been verified.”
“It’s not verified,” she said sharply. “This morning I went with Ryder to see Henderson—a geologist. The data he’s shown us doesn’t tell the whole truth. The methane hydrate readings—”
“Ivy.” His voice softened, the one he used when trying not to lose his temper.
“I’ve seen the data this afternoon. Everything is perfect.
Look, we can go over everything tonight.
Right now, I’ve got both banks on the line and the BlackRock execs waiting.
This is the final round. We’re almost there. ”
“George. This can’t wait—”
“It has to. Tomorrow morning we're doing a site visit and press photo opportunity on the Vega at nine—Sinclair wants shots of us with the rig operational in the background before we sign the papers back on shore straight after.
PR team's already coordinating it.” His excitement was palpable.
“Everyone will be there, including that engineer you liked, Jack Barnes. The whole operations team.” A note of pride crept in.
“It’s what we've worked for, Ives. We're finally doing it.”
“George, please—”
“I have to go.” The background hum of voices swelled, he was already moving. “Tell me at dinner tonight.”
The line went dead.
Ivy stared at the phone, her chest tight with panic. Tomorrow morning. George was signing tomorrow, and once the papers were executed, backing out would become a legal nightmare.
She’d built a life out of holding things together—George, the estate, every decision that kept their world from crumbling. But maybe this wasn’t about saving him this time. Maybe it was about proving she had a right to want something for herself.
She needed Jack’s testimony. With Jack at her side, they could present a united front—Henderson’s analysis backed by first-hand knowledge from someone who’d worked the rig. George would have to listen then. He’d have to see reason.
Most folks take the supply boat, Jack had said that first day, laughing over the roar of the rotor blades. You must be important if they sent a helicopter for you.
The supply boat.
The words dropped through her mind. A key turning in a lock.
She snatched up her phone and typed BlackRock rig transport. Northern Marine Services popped up immediately—schedule, coordinates, everything.
Next departure. Two o’clock.
She checked her watch. She had just over thirty minutes.
Her mind raced through the logistics. The rig had regular boat traffic—workers commuting daily. This was routine, not dangerous.
But Henderson’s words pushed back. Methane hydrates are temperature and pressure sensitive. You risk triggering a release.
That was a long-term drilling risk—not something that made the rig unsafe to visit. She’d be careful, quick, in and out before dark. Just long enough to convince Jack to come back with her, to help stop George before tomorrow’s signing.
The alternative was doing nothing. Letting George commit their family to a disaster because she’d been too cautious to act.
She tried Ryder’s number. The line didn’t connect.
Damn. Probably the weather.
Her battery flashed, 8%.
He’d tell her not to go alone.
He’d tell her to wait.
And she would—if waiting didn’t risk everything.
She typed fast, thumbs trembling:
Going to talk to Jack at the rig. Supply boat leaves at two. I’ll be back before dinner.
She added, don’t worry about me, then deleted it. This time, she wanted to take up space—to be seen, even if it scared her.
Her thumb hovered. Waiting might cost everything. She hit send before she could lose her nerve. The word glowed for a heartbeat, then the tiny checkmark appeared. Delivered. She stared at it until the screen dimmed.
No turning back now.
She quickly changed into her own clothes, unplugged the charger, shoved it in her bag, and reached for her coat. Twenty-five minutes to make the boat.
This was what she did. What she’d always done. Fixed problems before they became disasters. Stepped in when no one else would.
The marine services office sat near the docks, a small prefab building with salt-stained windows and a faded sign. The wind had picked up, but the sky had cleared. No storm in sight.
Inside, an older man sat behind a counter scattered with shipping manifests, barely glancing up when she entered.
“Help you?”
“I need a seat on the supply run to BlackRock Vega platform.”
Now he looked at her, taking in her business casual clothes and obvious lack of work gear. “You sure? It’s not exactly a cruise.”
“I’m sure. I need to speak with someone on the rig.”
He shrugged. “Your money. Got ID?”
She handed over her passport. He photocopied it with bureaucratic slowness. “Eighty-five dollars. Three hours round trip.”
I’ll be back long before dark.
She pulled out her credit card. “I’ll take it.”
The man ran it through an ancient machine that beeped erratically. “Boat leaves in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.” He handed her a ticket that looked like it’d been generated on a dot matrix printer. “Dock three.”
That easy.
At the dock, the supply boat looked exactly as advertised—industrial but well-maintained, its hull scarred by years of saltwater but clearly seaworthy.
Other passengers were already boarding. Men and women in coveralls and work boots, carrying toolboxes and duffel bags.
They moved with the casual efficiency of people making their daily commute, chatting and joking.
Ivy boarded, scanning for somewhere to sit. The passenger area was functional—bench seating bolted to the deck, no amenities. She looked for an electrical outlet to charge her phone and found nothing. It was an industrial boat, not set up for passenger convenience.
Frustration prickled at the back of her neck, but she was committed now. The boat’s engine motored to life, and a deckhand began untying the mooring lines.
No turning back.
She pulled on Ryder’s gloves, the ones he’d insisted she wear that morning.
Ryder should be here.
But I’m going anyway.
A deckhand, tall and wind-burned, straightened and gave her a once-over as she walked past. As if he couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing here.
“You sure you’re on the right boat?” he asked, wiping his hands on a rag. “We’re not heading out for brunch.”
She managed a polite smile. “I’m meeting someone on the rig.”
That seemed to satisfy him. Barely.
Another guy muttered as he passed, not quite under his breath, “Not our circus.”
Ivy sat straighter on the bench as the boat pulled away from the dock, spine stiffening against the cold metal. She wasn’t here to make friends, she was here to fix the mess.
As they hit open water, the water was gray and choppy, whitecaps forming in the wind. The boat pitched and rolled, and somewhere beneath the diesel roar and slap of waves, unease stirred in her belly.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out—three percent battery. A notification from her calendar app flashed, reminding her about tomorrow’s conference call with the bank.
Then the screen went black.
Dead.
Her stomach dropped. She held the power button—nothing.
Should have waited for Ryder.
The thought sliced through her determination, but she pushed it away. George was signing tomorrow. Jack was out here.
And she’d sent Ryder a text. He’d see it, know where she was.
It had to be enough.
Ivy buttoned her coat against the wind and cold spray, her mind already running through what she had to say. How she’d convince Jack to come back, present the case to George.
And explain to Ryder that she’d boarded a supply boat to a drilling platform without talking to him first.
But for once, she wasn’t stepping in to hold someone else’s world together. She was fighting for the life she wanted—whether or not anyone approved. She’d find Jack, convince her to return to dry land, and be back on shore before dark.
Simple—even though nothing about this felt simple.
Except the way she felt about Ryder. That was the only thing that made sense anymore.