11. Aria #3
I shot him a look. He shot one back, his expression bland but his eyes glinting with something that might have been a challenge.
I was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. With whatever heavy object was closest at hand.
Mr. Kahale's lips twitched. "I'm aware of your history." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "Your father, Mr. Dubois, made an offer on this property twenty years ago. My brother found it quite insulting."
I glanced at Sebastian. He looked as surprised as I felt, his composure cracking for just a moment before he smoothed it away.
"I didn't know that," he said.
"Most children don't know the full scope of their parents' business dealings." Mr. Kahale's eyes were knowing, almost kind. "But the sins of the fathers need not be visited upon the children. I'm willing to judge you both on your own merits."
He turned to me, and something in his expression softened.
"I knew your father, Miss Kealoha. I remember him bringing you here as a child.
You were perhaps four or five, running through the lobby, asking everyone you met if they'd seen any sea turtles.
" A faint smile crossed his weathered face.
"My father had just died when your parents got married here.
We were something close to friends, your father and I.
It pained me when he declined to buy this place. "
My throat tightened. I hadn't known that. Hadn't known they'd been close, that there had been an offer, a refusal.
Mr. Kahale rose from his chair, moving slowly to the window. The afternoon light fell across his stooped shoulders, illuminating the silver in his hair.
"This hotel has been in my family for four generations," he said, gazing out at the gardens below.
"My great-grandfather built it with his own hands, carried the stones himself, planted the first plumeria trees, laid every tile in the original lobby.
My father expanded it. My brother and I grew up running through these halls, learning every inch of this place before we could read. "
He paused, and the silence stretched long enough that I could hear the waves in the distance, the call of birds outside the window.
"I have no children," he continued quietly.
"No direct heirs. When I die, this legacy dies with me, unless I find someone worthy to carry it forward.
I would have left all of this to my niece, but even though she helps me run it now, she has other dreams she wants to pursue, other plans for her life. "
He turned to face us.
"That's what these two weeks are about. I don't want business proposals or profit projections." He waved a hand dismissively. "I've heard pitches. Dozens of them." He waved his hand. "Nonsense. All of it."
He moved back to his desk, lowering himself into the chair with the careful movements of age.
"I want to know who you are. What you value. Whether you understand what this place means." His dark eyes pinned us each in turn. "I want to see how you treat my staff. How you spend your time. What you notice when you walk through these halls."
He folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
"Two weeks. Show me who you are. Then I'll decide."
I felt a surge of hope so strong it nearly knocked the breath out of me. This was exactly what I'd been hoping for. Not spreadsheets and projections, not corporate speak and strategic plans, but heart. Connection. Understanding.
I had roots here. Culture. History. I had stories passed down through generations, memories of my grandmother's voice describing these very gardens, my parents' wedding photos taken on this beach.
Sebastian had none of that.
I glanced at him sideways. He sat rigid in his chair, his jaw tight, his fingers pressing into the armrests. He looked uncomfortable in a way I'd never seen before—out of his depth, stripped of the spreadsheets and talking points he'd probably spent days preparing.
This was not his territory.
"The meeting is concluded," Mr. Kahale said. "I'll see you both at dinner tomorrow evening. Formal attire, please. My niece will send the details."
We filed out in silence. In the hallway, we stopped and turned to face each other.
"Well," I said. "That wasn't what you were expecting, was it?"
Sebastian's jaw flexed. "I can adapt."
"Can you?" I tilted my head, studying him, the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression, the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. "Because this isn't about numbers and strategy. This is about heart."
I paused, letting the words land.
"And I'm not sure you have one."
His eyes, which had been hard and guarded, went soft for just a moment, wounded, almost, before the walls slammed back into place. I'd hurt him. I'd meant to hurt him, but seeing it actually land felt different from what I'd expected.
It felt worse.
I turned and walked away before I could do something stupid like apologize.
It was a cheap shot. I knew it was a cheap shot.
But the look on his face, the flash of pain in his eyes, like I'd reached into his chest and squeezed, stayed with me for the rest of the day.