40. Knox
Knox
Sunday morning at Beaumont Group is quiet, lights dimmed to weekend mode, the marble lobby echoing my footsteps like the building already knows I’m here to detonate something.
Mont likes to get in early on Sundays, clear his inbox, make a few calls, then hit the golf course before it gets crowded.
Perfect.
Or disastrous.
Hard to tell.
I step into the elevator and hit the top floor. It hums as it climbs, a sound that feels too harsh for how little sleep I got.
Cami is back at my apartment, curled up with the kittens and fully aware of what I’m about to do.
Tell her father I’m in love with his daughter.
Tell him I’ll walk away from the company if he wants blood.
She also knows about the photos.
About Jenna’s threat.
The timing.
The venom behind it.
And my plan to fix things.
Because I’m not ready to break the last piece of innocence Cami has somehow managed to hold onto. The media destroys people for sport. No way in hell will she become the subject of any negative headline.
My phone buzzes, slicing through the Sunday hush.
Cami’s name flashes across my phone. Her actual number. Her actual place in my life that’s not filtered through a bubble phone or summer rules or a glowing memory.
God, it feels good seeing her name here. Permanent. Rooted.
Cami: I love you. Fingers crossed he doesn’t murder you.
A quiet, rough laugh slips out. It doesn’t sound nearly as calm as I want it to.
I thumb out a reply just as the elevator doors slide open.
Me: If he does, please tell the kittens I died doing something brave.
Me: Love you too, baby.
Typing bubbles bounce immediately.
Cami: Deal. But remember, Shadow is dramatic, and Stripe would never recover. So…come home to us, okay?
Damn. Come home to us.
For one suspended moment, I forget I’m walking into the hardest conversation of my life.
Mont glances up from his laptop when I step into his office, his black-framed glasses low on his nose.
“Well, look at this. Ryder on a Sunday.” He nudges a folder toward me. “If you’re here to catch up on last week, impeccable timing. And we should go over your mentorship plan for Frankie. She’ll be in tomorrow.”
I take the seat across from him, palms sliding briefly down my jeans to calm myself.
Mont leans back, relaxed and completely unaware that his morning is seconds from exploding.
“You’re the perfect mentor for her,” he goes on. “Frankie needs someone she can trust.”
I clear my throat, the knot in my stomach drawing tight. “Mont, before we get into her mentorship, there’s something I need to tell you. About her. About Cami. Frankie. Sorry, I’m still adjusting to which name you prefer.”
Mont lifts a brow. “All right. Go on.”
“It’s an interesting story,” I say, leaning forward to steady myself. “You obviously know Paxton.”
He nods. “Of course. They’ve been best friends since they were three. Lived two brownstones down. He and Frankie grew up together.” He folds his arms, expectant. “What about him?”
“Nothing bad,” I tell him. “Paxton had a great summer gig lined up, but he got called early to an internship on Wall Street.”
Mont’s expression glints with fatherly pride. “Yes. He wants to join Beaumont Group eventually, but we agreed he needs outside experience first. Wall Street’s a good start. But what does any of that have to do with Frankie?”
I draw a slow breath. “Cami, Frankie, stepped in for his summer gig. She took over house-sitting…” I pause, bracing myself. “…In Crystal Cove.”
Mont stops cold, green eyes going wide. He removes his glasses and sets them on his desk, the click sharp as a gunshot.
“House-sitting,” he repeats quietly, adjusting his collar. “In Crystal Cove.”
“Yes.” I keep my tone controlled. “The house next door to mine.”
He rubs a hand along his jaw, confusion crumpling into something worse. “So wait. Is my Frankie the girl you hooked up with? The girl you fell for? The one who you thought ghosted you?” His face drains of color. “Oh my God. The one I encouraged you to—”
“Yes.” I scrub a hand down my face, steadying my breath.
“I didn’t know, Mont. I swear. Every time you talked about Frankie, I thought you meant your son.
She told me her name was Cami, and you’re the only one who calls me Ryder, so she only knew me as Knox.
We agreed to no last names, no real life…
and you know how the rest went.” I sit forward, elbows on my knees.
“Then she lost the phone I gave her, and we didn’t talk for almost a week.
” The truth edges out of me, unvarnished.
“We had no idea, Mont. Not until the second you introduced us at the gala.”
Mont rises so abruptly, the chair legs scrape across the tiled floor.
My pulse spikes, every instinct telling me to brace for impact.
But he doesn’t come toward me.
He crosses to the floor-to-ceiling window that frames Central Park like a painting.
His hands slip into his creased pants pockets, jaw working, the silence stretching tight enough to make my chest ache.
A dozen thoughts sprint through my head.
If I were him…what the hell would I be feeling?
Shock? Betrayal? Disappointment? Maybe all three knotted together.
And I sit here, uselessly still, bracing for the moment he decides what version of me he’s looking at: a man he trusts…or the one who fell for his off-limits daughter.
Several long beats pass before he clears his throat.
“When I adopted Frankie twenty-two years ago, it wasn’t just a promise to love her like my own.
It was a promise to keep her safe. To give her a home.
One that her bio dad didn’t have the decency to give her and her mother when he abandoned them.
I swore I’d never let another man fail her like that again. ”
My throat works around a hard swallow.
“Then that mess at Oxford happened,” he says, jaw flexing as he stares out at the park. “Watched her get worn down emotionally from an ocean away, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens as I remember what Cami shared with me. How her ex chipped away at her confidence, made her question her worth, her brilliance. How she clawed her way back through therapy and grit until she could breathe sans tears again.
“She’s done a lot of healing since then,” I say quietly. “Editing her future by sprinkling in happiness like—”
“Powdered sugar on pancakes.” Mont finally turns away from the window, head tilted when his narrow-eyed gaze finds me. “She shared that with you?”
I nod once. “And you know Cami doesn’t hand out pieces of herself easily. But I treated every piece she shared with me like precious gold. Still do.”
Mont drags in a slow breath, like someone trying to recalibrate an entire worldview.
He walks back to his chair, lowers himself into it, and leans back hard, hands steepled in front of his mouth.
“Look, Ryder.” He rocks once in his chair, controlled, restless. “Even though I love you like a son, every bone in my body wants to reach across this desk and beat the shit out of you.”
Sweat beads at my hairline, but I dare not move.
“And I could say you’re too old for my daughter,” he goes on, “but considering her mom and I had twenty years between us, I’m not interested in being that hypocrite.” He rubs his temple. “Plus, guys her age? Yeah, no thanks.”
A humorless breath escapes me.
“I could also say you’re not good enough for her…
” he says. “But hell—on paper, you’re pretty damn close.
Generational wealth like she has. Smart as hell.
Good family. You built your own legacy with Luxe Properties.
” He lowers his hands, eyes locking with mine—steely.
“And then there’s trust.” He purses his lips.
“I could claim I don’t trust you, but like I told her at the gala… I trust you with my life. And hers.”
My breath lodges somewhere between my ribs.
Being trusted with her life shouldn’t feel like a privilege I have no right to, but it does. And the truth is, I’d protect her at any cost.
Mont studies me, longer this time, like he’s searching for something beneath my skin. “Are you truly in love with my daughter?”
“Yes.” I bite my lip in hopes that it will settle my heartbeat. “Tried not to be. Told myself summer was temporary, that I’d walk away clean. But I can’t. I’m all the way in, Mont. Every part of me.”
He exhales, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the mahogany desk as if he’s weighing a future neither of us can see yet. “Where is she?”
“Cami?”
He shoots me a look. “Who else, Mother Teresa?”
“My place,” I say. “Since the gala.”
“Jesus Christ.” He rubs his jaw. “This is…a lot, Ryder. I need to speak with her before I give you two any kind of blessing.” He exhales, quieter this time.
“Though something tells me anything I say won’t matter.
But if you two continue with…whatever this is”—he pauses, jaw tightening—“and it gets serious, I need to know you’re staying on board.
Here. No cutting back. No disappearing like you mentioned this summer. ”
I nod, heartbeat thudding steady and stubborn in my chest.
“You have my word.” I pause. “But, there’s more.”
“More?” His fist meets the desk. “Don’t tell me she’s pregnant. I swear to God—”
“No. It’s Jenna.”
Mont goes still. “What about her?”
“She has photos.”
A hard glint flashes in his eyes. “Photos of…?”
“Me and Cami at Lark & Harlow,” I say. “Last night at dinner. Laughing. Close. My hand on her thigh.” My throat locks, but I force the words out. “Enough to spark rumors. Enough to light up the press.”
“Jesus.” The word slips out of him like a warning.
“She threatened to leak them,” I continue, “to the Gazette. And to you.”
His stare fixes on me, unblinking, as if he’s trying to determine whether he heard correctly or stepped into his worst nightmare.
“She said she’d run with a headline like: Luxe founder leaves wife for twenty-something heiress.” I look away briefly. “Our divorce was never publicly announced. Most people think we’re still married. She’s using that to make this look dirty. Spin the whole damn narrative onto me.”
A deep furrow cuts across his brows. “That would be an atomic headline.”
“I know. So does she.” I pull in a slow breath. “But that’s not the end of it.”
“Keep talking,” he says, a darker note creeping into his voice.
“She gave me forty-eight hours to take Westbury Place off the market.” My hands tighten on my knees. “And sign it over to her.”
His jaw goes murder-cold. “And…?”
“And Luxe,” I say quietly. “She wants that too, all of it.”
Mont shoots to his feet. “Your entire company?”
“Jenna’s out for blood, Mont. Wants to burn me down.” My gaze meets his and holds. “And she’s using Cami to strike the match.”
“Did she see the photos?” He sits back down.
“Yes,” I reply, quickly. “I’d never keep anything from Cami.”
His eyes shut, shoulders rising once as the weight of it all settles into the room like smoke. When he looks at me again, something lethal has taken root.
“That woman,” he seethes, “just made the biggest mistake of her life.” He leans forward, elbows braced on the desk, Beaumont-Group steel sliding into place. “She wants to weaponize the media? Use Frankie? Please tell me you have a plan.”
I straighten, meeting his stare without flinching. “I do.”
Silence thickens, heavy and dangerous, before his warning cuts through loud and clear.
“Fine. Then she can learn who actually controls what gets printed.” His gaze locks on mine, sharp, surgical, unflinching.
“She’s after my daughter’s name,” he says.
“After your image and reputation.” His tone lowers into something cold and unforgiving.
“And apparently doesn’t realize I’ll dismantle everything she’s standing on to keep the people I love safe. ”
The temperature in his office rises ten degrees, resolve at its core.
“But right now—” Mont rises from his chair. “I need to speak with Frankie. You can walk me through your plan to deal with Jenna en route to your place.”