7. Oliver
The story of Property Group is kind of tragic—but it’s got a happy ending.
I’ll keep it short, since talking about feelings and family drama isn’t exactly my strong suit.
My father used to run the company. He was the boss, the king, the man who thought he built everything we had. Until Luca—my older brother—finally forced him to step down and let the rest of us steer the damn ship.
Turned out, that was the smartest move anyone in this family ever made.
Because somewhere along the line, we realized our old man was the root of most of our problems—the competition he planted between us, the stress, the constant pressure to perform like machines. All those choices we made in our lives weren’t really ours. We just made them trying to please him.
Now Silas, the oldest, has taken full command.
And for once, things actually feel different.
First change: the branch rivalry? Dead.
We stopped comparing numbers. Finally admitted that our markets aren’t the same—New York’s got the pot of gold, Texas has the oil. There’s plenty of money here, sure, but no one competes with Manhattan.
Silas also cut down in-person meetings by half. Which, for me, is the best damn decision anyone’s ever made. I hate—and I mean hate—traveling to big cities.
New York feels like a nightmare come to life.
Miami’s tolerable—mostly because Luca’s beach makes up for the people.
San Francisco? Too damn cheerful. Everyone there looks like they’ve had three cups of optimism for breakfast.
Right now, we’re on a video call—each of us in our own offices—running the business like adults for once.
I’m sitting in my glass-walled corner office, the city stretching out behind me in a blur of steel and noise, papers scattered across my desk like they’re plotting a coup.
The kind of professionalism we could never show our father, because he never gave us the chance.
Killian: Stop yawning, for Christ’s sake—you’re making me do it too.
The message flashes on my screen while he smirks at me through the camera.
I’m in my office. The monitor’s big enough to see every one of my brothers in high definition. Silas is talking—again—about the new policies he wants us to apply at each branch. God bless him for marrying an environmentalist; otherwise, he’d never have turned half this company green.
Oliver: Sorry.
Killian: Nightmares again?
Oliver: Yeah.
He’s my little brother by one year, but he’s always been the louder one, the one who fills a room just by breathing. And he’s never asked what those nightmares are about. Never pushed farther than I let him.
I know he worries.
But if he ever found out what they’re about, he wouldn’t sleep either.
Killian: When are you gonna do something about it?
I stare at the message for a few seconds. The little typing bubble blinks, disappears, comes back again—like he’s thinking twice about pressing me.
The truth is, I’ve tried. Therapy, silence, work. None of it sticks. The only thing that helps is keeping my hands busy and my head down. But I don’t tell him that.
I just force a small grin for the camera.
Oliver: I’m fine, Kill. Just tired.
He doesn’t believe me. Never does.
“I can see you’re talking, idiots. Why don’t you just tell me what you think instead of wasting my time?” Silas snaps, rubbing his forehead like we’re the reason his blood pressure’s climbing.
Kill bursts out laughing and drops his phone onto the desk.
“Relax, Silas. Don’t get angry.”
“I’m angry because I could be home with my wife and kid right now, but instead I’m stuck here babysitting you three. You act like damn teenagers with your phones,” he growls.
Luca smiles, quiet as always. My second-oldest brother’s been smiling more since he got married two years ago—and I’m happy for him.
Kill leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I just picture Julian glued to his phone during dinner,” he teases, tossing the hypothetical into the air. “What are you gonna do then?”
Silas exhales hard, clearly picturing it. My nephew’s four and already has his father’s stubborn streak.
“I’d probably ground him till he’s twenty.”
Kill’s laugh explodes through the speaker—loud, careless, contagious.
It sounds too damn familiar.
Reminds me of someone I don’t want to think about.
Someone who’s been invading my quiet little world since the day she arrived.
“Remember when you used to text Lauren through the whole dinner?” Luca chimes in, siding with his future nephew just to stir the pot.
“That’s different,” Silas mutters, looking exasperated. “It was one time, and she—” He stops mid-sentence and smiles, probably lost in whatever memory just hit him.
“Okay, okay,” Kill interrupts, grinning. “Let’s not make him revisit that memory.”
“Good call,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Can we just vote and wrap this up? Some of us need to sleep.”
Not that I actually can sleep.
For weeks, the nightmares have been waiting for me the moment I close my eyes. When they hit too hard, I try to nap by the lake instead.
But lately, that’s impossible too.
Because Miss Saint-Clair has made it her mission to orbit my land like a satellite—always humming songs through her earbuds, talking to every living creature she finds.
Everyone but me, of course.
And somehow, that silence between us drives me crazier than her voice ever could.
This is no way to live.
“Someone’s in a hurry to get back to his ranch…” Kill drawls, that mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Makes me wonder if someone’s got you like that, brother.”
Both my older brothers suddenly look a lot more interested.
“Killian, knock it off,” I grumble. I know where this is going.
“Whooo?” Silas chants, pounding his fist rhythmically on the desk like a damn drum.
“No one! Jesus, you sound like a bunch of old ladies trading gossip over the fence.”
“Killian, tell us,” Silas demands, narrowing his eyes at him.
Kill just smirks at the camera, taking pity on me—but barely.
“No one,” he says finally, pretending to give up. “Just messing with him.”
But the look he gives me through the screen says otherwise.
He knows exactly who he’s thinking about.
Miss Cala Saint-Clair.
My biggest problem right now—and the reason my patience’s been wearing thin.
Kill thinks all the things that irritate me about her are exactly what I like about her.
I told him to stop watching so many damn romance movies.
The world doesn’t work like that.
She gets on my nerves. End of story.
It doesn’t matter how thick her lashes are, or how her waist curves like an hourglass. None of that matters if the person behind it drives you insane.
And that woman—she does.
She does everything backward, and even when the result’s fine, she takes twice as long to get there. I don’t have time for that kind of chaos when I’ve got a ranch to run.
Lucien’s supposed to keep an eye on her, but clearly that’s not enough.
The call finally ends, and I shut my laptop like I’m putting the whole circus on mute. I grab my jacket and head straight for the garage.
My “city car” sits waiting—a military-green Land Rover that barely knows anything beyond the road between Dallas and home.
An hour later, I’m driving through open country again, the flat Texas horizon stretching forever. I turn on Dallas Today, a podcast that talks about market trends and real estate investments.
Useful stuff. I need that information to stay ahead in this business.
Texas real estate’s gone wild the past few years—nearly doubled in value. Low taxes, big money, and that taste for luxury. The northern counties have the priciest estates in the state—sprawling properties with lakes, polo horses, and more land than people know what to do with.
And I’m the man who sells them that dream.
Simple. Profitable. Efficient.
That’s the kind of world I understand. Not… whatever the hell Miss Saint-Clair is.
I park in the four-car garage and step inside through the door that opens straight into the kitchen.
The first thing I smell is Eliza’s stew. Thank God for that woman—she cooks like heaven itself owes her royalties.
The first thing I see, however… is an ass.
Wait—what?
I blink, tilt my head—and yeah. There it is.
Miss Cala Saint-Clair, leaning over the kitchen island, gossiping with Eliza like she’s lived here her whole damn life.
She’s wearing high-waisted jeans that do nothing to hide how perfectly curved she is.
Round. Balanced. Dangerous.
Jesus, Oliver, stop staring at her ass.
Both women freeze the moment I clear my throat, but the one who looks truly terrified is Miss Saint-Clair herself.
“Afternoon,” I say carefully, like I’ve just walked into a ritual mid-incantation.
“Oliver! Welcome home,” Eliza chirps, all bright and cheery, like this is perfectly normal. “Would you like some coffee?”
Miss Saint-Clair, on the other hand, has gone statue-still—like if she doesn’t move, maybe I won’t see her.
There’s nothing invisible about her. Not to me.
“What are you doing here, Miss Saint-Clair?” My tone’s sharper than I intend. “Do you need something?”
“No, I was just leaving,” she blurts, all flustered. “Thanks for the advice, Eliza.”
And just like that, she glides out of the room—hips swaying in slow motion until the door closes behind her.
Eliza’s smile turns sly, like she can read every damn thought I’m trying not to have.
“Advice?” I ask, dropping onto one of the stools.
“Apparently her ex-boyfriend wants to visit her,” Eliza says, ever the fountain of information. “And she doesn’t know how to tell him no.”
I glance toward the door again, as if I might still catch a trace of her.
An ex.
A boyfriend.
Suddenly my mind’s full of things it has no business picturing—Cala walking beside some guy in the city, his arm around her waist; the way she might look smiling up at him in bed.
“Ex-boyfriend?” I repeat, feeling something I don’t have a name for crawl under my skin.
“Yes. The boy she dated in Waco. Poor thing’s still heartbroken, apparently,” Eliza says, drying dishes like she’s narrating a soap opera.
I find myself asking, “And why’d she end it?” The question slips out before I can even stop myself, and I’m left wondering why I’m so invested in the answer.
Eliza doesn’t miss a beat. “She said she knows how hard long-distance relationships are, so she thought it best to cut things clean.”
I stare at the door again, this time thinking about everything Cala gave up—her studies, her life, her future—to take care of her parents.
And just like that, the guilt slams back into me like cold water to the face.
“You want that coffee now?” Eliza asks, her voice softening.
“No. Thanks.”
I leave the kitchen without another word, heading to my room before I do something stupid—like keep thinking about a woman who’s supposed to mean nothing.