Chapter 19
NINETEEN
GREGG
Friday
Westridge Hills Golf & Country Club
Palo Alto, California
Pale ribbons of green fairway stretch out beneath the washed-out sky.
The country club feels suspended in time, the only sound being the distant chirps of birds and the soft, rhythmic clink of clubs being swung.
I step up to the tee and tell myself, briefly, that I know what I’m doing.
I swing with far too much intent, as though conviction alone may compensate for technique, and the club bites into the turf, tearing free a divot that sails impressively through the air.
The ball follows less inspired, rolling forward a few miserable metres before coming to rest as if embarrassed to continue.
There’s a beat, then Daniel laughs loudly.
“Well, Greggory,” he says, voice entirely too amused, “I can’t say you didn’t make an impression on the course.”
Cameron doesn’t laugh outright, but I catch the grin he tries and fails to suppress. “That patch of grass never stood a chance.”
I groan, bending to retrieve my tee and shake my head. “Glad I could provide entertainment. If we were competing on lawn destruction, I’d be the one walking away with a trophy.”
“You’ve got conviction,” Daniel states, adjusting his cap as he steps forward. “I’ll give you that.”
He makes it look effortless. One clean practiced swing, a sharp crack echoing across the fairway, and the ball flies straight and true, disappearing down the center guided by intention instead of luck.
“A little polish,” he adds mildly, watching its flight. “And you might surprise yourself, dude.”
Cameron goes next, and his movements are fluid and un-showy, shaped by familiarity rather than discipline.
He had mentioned he’d play on weekends with his mother, and I learned this morning, for his school team.
His ball sails a respectable distance, rolling neatly toward the edge of the green before settling.
He steps back and meets my eyes. “See? It’s all about rhythm.” He’s teasing but sincere. “You’ve got rhythm, don’t you?”
I snort. “I’ll stick to piano keys. At least those don’t end up in sand traps.”
We start down the fairway together, the grass damp beneath our shoes. That’s when Daniel’s tone shifts less casually, more considered.
“So, Wilmont,” he begins. “I’ve been thinking about how to make it stand apart.
Belgravia has history, but history alone won’t sell the future, ya’ know?
” He glances toward me. “What if we introduce curated cultural programming? Seasonal exhibitions. Performances. Something that connects modern London to its heritage while keeping the space alive.”
I feel myself straighten, the easy banter slipping away as something sharper takes its place.
“Like living culture,” I say slowly. “Not just preserved architecture.”
“Yes,” Daniel replies. “Exactly!”
I slow my stride, the idea unfolding in my mind like a blueprint. “That would change Wilmont entirely,” I claim. “It wouldn’t just be a residence, it would make it a destination. A place people talk about. Something that draws attention beyond square footage or a postcode.”
Cameron watches me closely as I speak, his expression thoughtful, and I forget about the poor excuse for a drive I’d made minutes before.
“It’s experiential living,” Cameron chimes in. “People wouldn’t just be buying property, they’re buying, like, belonging. Think about it, an address and a calendar of curated events? That kind of exclusivity markets itself.”
“Exactly.” Daniel smiles. “He gets it! That’s the kind of thinking that will put Wilmont beyond its competitors,” he looks to me, “and I think you should carry that forward.”
Cameron flashes me an encouraging glance. I am clearly out of my depth on the course, but when the conversation shifts toward ideas and long-term vision, I can make this work. That terrain, at least, belongs to me.
“See, Daniel?” I say easily, lifting my club in a loose gesture, a half-grin tugging at my mouth. “Maybe I’m not completely useless on the green.”
Daniel laughs, tipping his cap back, glancing at Cameron. “You’ve got the right company to make up for it.”
“Told you,” Cameron says, nudging my arm with playful confidence. “Rhythm. Just a different kind of swing.”
By the seventh hole, the last of the morning mist has burned away, leaving the fairways sharp and bright beneath the California sun.
My drives remain wildly inconsistent, with one slicing humiliatingly into the rough, and another landing with a dull thud straight into a sand pit.
Each mistake should have rattled me, should have echoed with my dad’s voice, precise and unforgiving.
But somehow, it doesn’t. Instead, the conversation carries me forward.
There’s an ease to it I hadn’t expected.
Daniel’s calculated edge, what makes him a formidable businessman, softens into something almost companionable.
“You know, dude,” he says, resting his hands on the top of his driver as we wait for Cameron to take his shot.
“I’ve worked with plenty of people who can recite numbers and forecasts until you’re numb.
That’s easy.” He glances at Cameron, a smile creasing his face.
“What’s rare is someone who can talk about vision and make it feel tangible. ”
My chest relaxes with relief.
“And I think,” Daniel continues, “you’ve got the right influence here. The ideas thrown around earlier? That perspective is what will separate us and this project from everything else trying to look impressive.”
Cameron sends his ball cleanly down the fairway, effortless and straight, then turns back to us with mock humility. “I’m just a tourist in your world of development.” He sighs. “But as that person, I know how I want to feel when I step into a place. That’s universal.”
Daniel nods in agreement. “And when I hear that from a person, not a pitch deck, it makes me believe in this even more.” He lines up his shot and sends the ball arcing beautifully toward the green before adding casually, “Confidence is half the battle, Gregg. Don’t let your swing, or anyone, knock it out of you. ”
The words hit harder than his tone suggests.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself before stepping back up to the tee. My swing is still off, the club catches too much earth and the ball barely clears the tee box. I grimace instinctively, bracing for criticism that never came. Daniel only lets out a friendly laugh.
We approach the tee box of the eighteenth hole, the fairway stretching out toward the distant green, framed neatly by tall pines. I catch Daniel watching me as I take a slow sip from my water bottle, too thoughtful to be casual. “Can I ask you something off the record?” he asks.
I lower my club and nod. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Have you given any real thought to Kenneth Franklin’s offer at Regal Crown? Paris is a big stage.”
I freeze for half a second, long enough for Cameron to notice.
“I didn’t realize Kenneth was discussing that so openly,” I answer, keeping my voice even.
“He wasn’t explicitly.” Daniel shrugs. “But investors talk. Rumors drift. Some think you may take it.”
My grip tightens around the club, and I met Cameron’s eyes briefly as Daniel’s words settle between us. “I told Kenneth I needed time. But my focus is Wilmont. That hasn’t changed.”
Daniel nods slowly, studying me. “Just make sure, when the time comes, you’re the one making the decision. Not Kenneth, and not the weight of legacy.”
I look down the fairway, the green impossibly far away.
“Paris or London,” Daniel goes on. “Investors will follow you if they believe you’re leading on your own terms.”
“Seems like you’ve got options,” Cameron chimes in. “Doesn’t sound like a burden. Sounds like power.”
I look at him and feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.
“Now,” Daniel says with a light smirk. “Show me if you can put that power into a swing.”
I exhale and square myself, then step up to the ball.
The club comes down clean.
And at last, contact.