Page 123 of Knotted By my Pack
But I haven’t touched her. Not in weeks. And now I won’t. Not when I have Cora in my head. In my chest.
I try to focus. Run my hand through my hair. Re-read the draft I’ve been laboring over.
Brielle knocks once, then opens the door. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “He’s here.”
That’s all. My father. Here.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat and close the folder. The paper inside is still warm from the heat of my palms.
I smooth it once, slide it under my arm, and nod at her. Brielle steps aside, quiet now in that calculating way of hers, watching me as I walk past.
The hallway to his office feels longer than usual, like every step forward somehow stretches the distance. I press my palm to the door, steel myself, and step in.
What I don’t expect is Damien.
And the board.
The room smells of expensive cologne, fresh paper, and tension.
Around the long walnut table sit the usual suspects: Patel, fingers clasped like he’s praying for the meeting to end; Gerhardt, sharp-eyed and already tracking my every move; Vincent Shaw, ever loyal to my father, flanked by two junior execs who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
There’s also a fresh-faced analyst in a slick blue suit, probably trying to earn his stripes. All of them were at the luxury resort pitch in Driftwood Cove.
All of them know what I was meant to deliver.
My father doesn’t look up. “What are you doing here?”
I grip the folder tighter. “I wanted to speak with you. Privately.”
Damien’s mouth twitches. “Is this about the Harbor project?”
“This is between me and our father.” My tone cuts through the room like a switchblade. Eyes flick toward him, then back to me.
My father sighs heavily and finally meets my gaze. “Whatever you thought was so urgent, you can share it now.”
So much for private.
I move to the head of the table and set the folder down in front of him. “We’re running into delays. The Harbor project isbleeding resources. Permits are backlogged. The environmental assessment came back with more complications than we expected. I’ve been researching?—”
“Is this about shutting it down?” Vincent cuts in. “We’ve already sunk a third of the budget into pre-construction.”
“Have you considered a public-private partnership to alleviate the strain?” Patel adds.
“Your brother was able to handle an oil contract, so maybe he can advise you on what we need to circumvent to get this started?” Gerhardt leans forward. “Because the clause?—”
“I’m not scrapping the project,” I say, voice clipped. “I’m suggesting we shift the timeline and reinvest in a vertical that serves the people of the region instead of siphoning off what’s left of their resources.”
Damien snorts like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“I’m working in oil. You’re the one who had all these ideas of how lucrative your deal was. I thought your luxury resort would actually bring in jobs, tourism, media coverage. Don’t tell me this is some sudden moral awakening.”
My hands are clenched now, nails biting into my palms. “Stay out of this.”
“I’m being supportive.” That smugness always comes easy to him. Always delivered with that polished grin that never quite reaches his eyes.
My father stands.
The room falls still.
