Chapter 18
PEYTON
I scan the study in a wild-eyed frenzy. The desk is too exposed—a massive, sculptural slab of ivory wood with a hollowed-out, curvy base that offers nowhere to hide.
No closet. No conveniently placed armoire or decorative screen.
Just expensive furniture, conceptual art, and a set of giant windows overlooking the lake, flanked by thick, white blackout drapes that pool on the floor.
It’s the only logical hiding place.
Footsteps approach the door.
I bolt for the window and wedge myself behind the fabric, pressing my spine against the cold pane.
I close my eyes and pray that Liam doesn’t have a gardener who works afternoons.
If someone were to walk past outside right now, they’d get an unobstructed view of my semi-bare ass smashed to the glass.
The study door swings open.
“Something to drink?” Liam asks. His voice is tight, stripped of the playful lilt he uses with me.
I hold myself rigid, lungs frozen mid-inhale. Through the gap where the curtain meets the window frame, I glimpse slivers of the room. I spy Liam’s silhouette as it moves toward the built-in bar in his bookshelves.
“No, thank you,” Charles replies. “I’m not staying long.”
Ah, small mercies.
I force myself to breathe. Shallow, controlled sips of air that won’t rustle the fabric.
“Alright.” Ice clinks against crystal; a liquid is poured. “What did you want to discuss?”
“We need to talk about your marriage,” Charles says.
My stomach drops through the floor. I wish I could follow and disappear.
“What about it?” Liam sounds on edge now.
“I understand young love, son. The impulsiveness. The passion. Your mother and I were the same way, once upon a time.”
Another pause. I imagine Liam’s expression—that controlled mask he wears around his father, the one that hides all his emotions.
“But a man in your position also needs to be practical,” Charles presses on. “You have responsibilities. To the company. To the family name. I’ve spoken with Roger, and he confirmed you didn’t sign a prenup.”
“Way to kill the romance, Dad.” Liam’s laugh is dry, humorless. “We got married this weekend. The ink on the certificate isn’t even dry, and you’re already planning the divorce.”
“This isn’t about love. It’s about protection.” Charles’s voice hardens. “I’ve asked Roger to draft a postnuptial agreement. It ensures that in the case of a split, Peyton won’t receive any shares in our holding. Only money. We can’t have outside ownership diluting the family trust.”
“I’m aware.”
I press my palms flat against the cold glass. Charles isn’t wrong, especially since this marriage already has an expiration date. I’m not a gold digger, but Liam doesn’t know that he can trust me. I’m surprised he didn’t make me sign a prenup himself.
“A cash settlement is the best option,” Charles concludes.
“How much?” Liam asks, sounding bored.
“We thought a hundred thousand dollars per year of marriage would be fair. Capped at ten years.”
Holy hell.
That’d be half a million if we stayed together for five years.
The number is staggering. Life-changing. A sum that would set up my parents, pay off their medical bills for the rest of their lives, and provide a comfy cushion for rainy days. But I’m already lying to this family—I won’t take their money on top of it.
I’ll sign whatever they want. Protect their precious company. But I won’t cash the check. It wouldn’t be right.
“I’ll discuss it with Peyton.” Liam’s voice has shifted, grown closer.
Is he coming this way? I stop breathing again.
Why is he walking toward the windows? Does he want to gaze out at the lake and contemplate his wealthy existence?
His footsteps halt on the other side of the curtain. He must be only inches away.
Liam makes a strangled, choking sound. Like he’s swallowed an ice cube whole.
“Are you alright?” Charles asks from across the room.
“Fine,” Liam wheezes. “Just… water down the wrong pipe.”
“Do you think she’ll sign?” Charles presses.
“I don’t see why she wouldn’t.”
Then, without warning, something drags down the curtain, making contact with my bare stomach.
Every muscle in my body locks. My spine goes rigid to the point of snapping.
I can’t scream, can’t jump, can’t do anything but keep upright and fight the violent urge to shiver under his touch.
If I had to guess, he’s using the bent knuckle of his index finger.
He trails it down, lingering for a beat too long near my belly button.
My skin erupts in goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold glass behind me.
Then the hand is gone.
“Though with Peyton,” Liam adds, his voice pitched oddly, “you never know. She’s full of surprises.”
The words are pointed, meant for me, I’m sure.
How did he figure out I was hiding here?
I flatten myself harder against the French windows, begging the universe for this conversation to end. I’d scream that I’ll sign my soul away if it would get both Rockwoods out of this room. Anything to escape this stifling fabric prison.
But Charles isn’t finished. “Well, get it done. And while we’re alone,” he adds, killing my hope for freedom, “I want to discuss our online store expansion.”
Liam sighs and moves away from the window.
“Dad, for the millionth time, pouring capital into e-commerce is the wrong move. The digital giants will crush us on distribution and selection,” he continues.
“We can’t compete with their infinite shelf space or their logistics networks.
It’s a losing battle. We don’t want to become another generic scrolling experience. ”
I focus on his words instead of the memory of his hand on my stomach.
“It’s efficient,” Charles counters. “The margins are higher.”
“It’s soulless. We should center our strategy on local curation.”
“Meaning what?” Charles sounds skeptical.
“Meaning we give each store manager autonomy to select gear for their regional market.” Liam’s voice moves around the room as he speaks.
“Right now, every Rockwood Outdoors store stocks the same inventory because a head office three states away decided what sells nationally. But outdoor recreation isn’t national. It’s hyper-local.”
“But we’d lose our economies of scale.”
“And we’d gain relevance. A hiker in the rainy Pacific Northwest needs different boots than someone trekking through the Arizona desert.
A shop in the Rockies should feature technical climbing kits right at the front entrance, reflecting what locals buy—not some nationwide average that means nothing to anyone. ”
The strategy is smart. Annoyingly, impressively clever. Pity I have to appreciate it while standing in my underwear behind a curtain.
“I’ve read the proposal,” Charles admits. “But I still don’t understand how smaller stores translate to a win.”
“The big retail spaces are a drain on rent and on electricity bills.” Liam’s voice sharpens with conviction. “We’re paying premium prices for square footage we can’t justify.”
His footsteps pass in front of me again. I hold my breath.
“The goal isn’t the most inventory—it’s the right inventory.”
At my previous company, I worked as a business analyst, and now I can’t stop myself from imagining the pitch deck that would accompany this strategy—clean slides, targeted KPIs, regional heat maps showing purchase patterns.
Business analytics is my world. Or it was, before Matt burned it to the ground.
“We strip away the lifestyle clutter,” Liam continues. He’s speaking my language with the same casual confidence he does everything else. “The generic camping trinkets and cheap coolers that big-box discounters sell for less. Let them have that market—we can’t win it, anyway.”
Charles makes a skeptical sound, but Liam barrels on.
“In place of that dead inventory, we expand the ‘Tech and Trail’ workshop. Repairs. Custom gear fittings. The overall store size shrinks, but the percentage of space dedicated to hands-on service increases.”
“Repairs?” Charles scoffs. “The margins are too low.”
“We’d be selling a lifestyle. Stepping into Rockwood Outdoors should feel identity-affirming. When a customer comes into one of our shops they must see themselves as a real outdoorsman. That identity,” Liam insists, “is what drives the long-term loyalty a one-click algorithm can never buy.”
The older man sighs. “You make a compelling case for the brand, I’ll give you that. But the numbers need to work, too.”
“They will. The reduction in overhead alone covers the staffing for the workshops.”
I’m holding my breath again, not from fear this time, but out of sheer, grudging admiration.
This business side of Liam is doing nothing to help me maintain emotional distance.
It’s like each day peels back another layer of him I didn’t expect to find attractive—the competence, the vision, the genuine passion beneath the polished exterior.
“We’ll discuss the financials at the office tomorrow. I have a dinner meeting.” Charles pauses. “I know I push back, but… you’re stepping up.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I have to go now. Tell Peyton I’m sorry I missed her.”
“Oh, I will.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Bet he can’t wait to have words with me.
Footsteps move toward the door. “Walk me out?”
“Sure.”
Their voices fade into the hallway. The heavy front door opens and closes with a solid thud.
I remain frozen behind the wall of fabric, my muscles locked. What if Charles forgot something? What if—
Footsteps return. Unhurried. Slightly uneven.
They stop in front of my soft cage.
The silence stretches, a rope about to snap.
Then Liam’s voice cuts through the curtain, a fresh shock to my system.
“Why are you hiding back there? You can come out now.”