Page 9 of Defending What's Mine

She nods as though that was the only acceptable answer. “Let’s speak plainly. My granddaughter possesses a sizable trust, but money attracts parasites. I’ve seen fortunes bled dry by charming men with perfect smiles.” Her gaze flicks to my mouth—assessment logged. “What is your financial picture, Mr. Hawke?”

Direct assault—she doesn’t waste ammo. I keep my expression neutral. “Comfortably solvent. I own a mortgage-free property outside Denver and maintain diversified investments. No debt beyond a single business line of credit for growth capital.”

Her eyebrow arcs. “Growth of what, precisely?”

“Private security firm. Boutique, high-net-worth clients. Charlotte is familiar with my background.”

“Background that involves risk,” she counters. “Bodyguards earn danger money but seldom build empires.”

“True.” I let the silence hang a moment. “But I’m not marrying Charlotte to leverage her assets. I’m here because I value her—values, intelligence, every facet. Finances are secondary.”

That lands poorly. A tight line forms around her mouth. “Love, Mr. Hawke, doesn’t pay property taxes or boardroom coups.”

“No, ma’am,” I concede. “It does, however, keep you from selling your soul for a bigger yacht.”

She inhales—a slow, measured breath—and I know I’ve triggered her ledger-driven worldview. I continue before she can fire back.“My role is to stand between Charlotte and whatever threat appears—physical, emotional, corporate. I’ve done it for heads of state. Doing it for someone I love feels—” I shrug once. “Natural.”

“Love,” she repeats, tasting the word like it’s unripe fruit. “You’ve known her, what, a handful of weeks?”

“Long enough to recognize integrity.” My gaze holds hers. I soften my tone but not conviction. “I respect your caution. Charlotte’s safety matters more to me than my own. Money can’t buy that.”

Silence stretches, thick as library dust. Wind rattles the sash; foyer voices drift faintly beyond the door. I let the quiet work, an interrogation tool in reverse—show composure, invite her next move.

Finally she leans back, fingers drumming porcelain. “Suppose Charlotte’s trust was revoked tomorrow. Would you still marry her?”

“Yes.” The answer is automatic, unfiltered, true.

She searches my face for tells—eye dart, lip curl, defensive blink. I give her none. She looks away first, adjusting the lace at her cuff, and in that micro-surrender I see the opening.

“I appreciate fiduciary prudence,” I add, voice lower, measured. “We’ll sign a prenuptial agreement that satisfies every family attorney you put in the room—ironclad protections. But those documents will be paperwork, not motivation.”

Nana Peg’s shoulders ease a fraction. Not approval, but acknowledgment. She lifts her cup again, steam fogging the lensof her glasses. “What do you know of Charlotte’s philanthropic board obligations?”

“Ten hours a month, plus gala season,” I recite. “She’s passionate about urban literacy programs; I offered my firm’s pro-bono security for their book-mobile events.”

That surprises her. Another point registered.

Her cup clinks softly onto the saucer. “Very well, Mr. Hawke.” She stands, and the conversation is dismissed, but her eyes linger on mine, softer now, if only by a degree. “Charlotte’s happiness is non-negotiable. Break it, and you’ll answer to me.”

I rise, matching her height, which isn’t much. “Understood. And for the record, Mrs. Lane, I’m far more worried about failing Charlotte than crossing you.”

A thin smile cracks her reserve, and for a flicker she looks pleased. “Good night, Mr. Hawke.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

She exits, footsteps precise on the parquet. I wait ten seconds—standard clearance—then step into the corridor, eyes sweeping for threats, ears tuned for distressed syllables. All clear.

One hurdle down, a lifetime of guardianship to go. I can work with that.

When I get back to the room, Charlotte’s sitting on the balcony, and I rush out there, scanning the outside for possible threats.

“What did my grandmother say?” she asks, standing slowly.

“Usual jargon. She adores me.” I’m joking, obviously, and Charlotte just gives me a half-smile.

“I’m sure,” she says, and I hint a note of sarcasm. “As long as she’s buying it, that’s all that matters.”

I nod, eyes sweeping the perimeter for any lingering threat. “Tomorrow we’ll need to dial up the convincing act.”

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