1. Liam
LIAM
Present time
Thirty floors above Manhattan, the boardroom is lined in hand-crafted dark walnut, soft directional light, and a table cut from a single slab.
Hunt & Hunt Private.
My brother’s name and mine are mounted on the wall behind me.
The man across the table, CEO of Redwood Dynamics, keeps his jaw tight, fingers steepled like he’s holding back a verdict.
His advisory team sits to his left. I’ve met most of them before.
The new face—his financial advisor—I haven’t.
Though I’m already familiar with her gestures.
Her face angles toward me, more interested in the way I knotted my tie than in anything her boss is saying.
“Your revised position fucks the deal,” Redwood says. He then rises, palms flat on the table. “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. You didn’t ‘adjust’ anything! You rewrote the goddamn board.”
I don’t blink. I’ve been called worse than unreasonable by men with weaker spines and louder mouths.
“It alters the timeline,” I say. “Not the outcome.”
His nostrils flare. “That’s a cute distinction,” he snaps. “But I’m not here to get slow-walked while you screw with the numbers.”
He shoves back from the table and turns to the window.
My brother Maximilian sits beside me like this is just another afternoon.
We should have closed an hour ago. The earlier demand that derailed us was his, pushed too early, too bluntly.
He knows it, and I know it. But I don’t leave him exposed.
A man can misjudge a moment and still be worth backing. He always is.
“Let’s be reasonable here, Mr. Hunt,” Redwood’s financial advisor cuts in, her voice gliding between broadcast finesse and a private proposition. Her fingers gather a strand of hair, her red nails flashing as she eases it back. “You know you want this deal.” She fixes her gaze on me.
“I do, Miss Gutierrez,” I say, holding her eyes no longer than I would anyone else. “Which is why I’d like to walk you through why the adjusted timeline serves both parties better than the original terms did.”
Redwood returns and sits back in his chair. “Here’s where I’m at. You either stop playing clever and put the deal back where it was…or I walk out, and you can explain to your board why this went to hell over greed.”
Redwood Dynamics will be an asset to Hunt’s investment empire. But I learned a long time ago that pressure applied at the wrong moment doesn’t yield compliance. Force doesn’t settle a creature that’s already cornered.
I own veterinary clinics, an occupation that keeps me sane.
I deal with menaces with fangs. When a dog comes in snapping, muscles rigid, eyes blown wide with fear, you don’t meet aggression with aggression.
You lower your stance, slow your breath, and make yourself predictable.
You let them realize they’re safe before you ask them to trust you.
Redwood shifts in his chair. He wants to win. More than that, he wants to be seen not losing.
So do I.
But winning doesn’t always mean taking everything.
“Your concern,” I continue, “is loss of decision authority during integration.”
His counsel glances at him with a fractional nod. Gutierrez’s smile brushes my way, as if offering a cue that I’ve read it right.
“We’re not acquiring Redwood to absorb it,” I say to all Redwood’s team. “We’re investing to scale it.”
Max moves then. “Which is why,” he adds smoothly, “we’re proposing a staggered integration schedule. You retain board majority for the first eighteen months.”
Redwood’s eyes snap to him.
This is Max at his best—fast, adaptive, formidable in a tailored suit.
Redwood exhales slowly. “Go on.”
An assistant steps in, placing slim tablets in front of the Redwood team. The revised terms and figures are already queued.
Max continues, “Key committees remain Redwood-led. At month nineteen, governance rebalances automatically, contingent on performance thresholds we define today.”
“There’s a reason Hunt & Hunt doesn’t strip companies for parts,” I add. “We don’t extract value. We compound it.”
Redwood pushes the tablet away. His attention locks on me. “You’re confident,” he says.
I give a small smile. “We’re prepared.”
Redwood’s mouth curves, barely. The advisors murmur among themselves as numbers are revisited, percentages are softened, and language shifts from hostile to cooperative.
This is the moment where creatures stop straining against the lead. I feel it before I see it.
Redwood extends his hand. “Fine,” he says. “We move forward. On these terms.”
I stand and shake his hand with a firm grip. “Good. Let’s get it done.”
The room clears. Gutierrez tries to linger, but Redwood’s mention of an upcoming flight shuts that down before she can engineer a reason to stay. The door seals behind them.
Max exhales. “You owe me.”
I frown. “You nearly set the deal on fire.”
He shrugs. “Minor flare.”
I glance at him. “Don’t do that again.”
“Next time I’ll warn you first.” He falls into step beside me as we head toward my office. “Interesting development, though. Gutierrez looked ready to climb into your lap.”
“She’ll have to try harder.”
“This is why I keep telling you—fake wedding ring. Simple solution.”
I almost smile. “Max. Half the time that’s exactly what starts it.”
In my office, he goes straight for the decanter and pours himself a healthy finger of Michter’s twenty-year bourbon.
I watch him take a sip. “That one costs you.”
He lifts the glass. “Name it.”
“Full sparring tonight. Three rounds.”
He considers the drink, then takes another swallow. “You’re on.”
I glance at my watch.
The suit jacket comes off. I hang it neatly and pull on the other one—white, pressed, my name stitched above the pocket.
Dr. Liam Hunt.
Beneath it, a ridiculous little cartoon springer spaniel with a grin too big for its face.
Max gives me a sideway smile. “You ever worry that thing undermines your authority?”
“Only with people who need reminding.”
I head for the elevator and he follows.
He asks, “So, who’s today’s problem child? Kingston the Saint Bernard? Or Lord Ferreton?”
“Neither,” I say. “New patient, Barabas. German Shepherd.”
Max blinks. “That a name or a warning label?”
“Apparently he’s allergic to meat.”
He stops short. “A shepherd. Allergic to meat.”
“I’m fairly certain,” I reply, pressing the elevator down button, “he just dislikes the meat he’s been served.”
Max exhales. “What a snob.”
The elevator dings. He gestures toward the men’s room and peels off.
“Tonight,” I call after him. “Full sparring.”
He grimaces and throws one shadowbox over his shoulder.
The doors close. The display cycles through weather as the elevator drops, warning of a thunderstorm rolling over New York.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer. “Liam Hunt.”
“Hunt. Finally.”
The voice is bright, almost sing-song. It takes me a second to place the face.
“Victor?” I say. “Victor Rochemont?”
The signal stutters, then clears.
“Hunt! There he is.” An easy laugh follows, and then the line breaks again and drops completely.
A message pings a few seconds later.
Sorry, Hunt. Gotta go. Call you later.
A clown emoji follows.
Joker. After all these years.