Page 12 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
Adrian leans forward, glass balanced on his knee, and the corner of his mouth curves into something I already don't like. "I can get close to her. It won't be a hardship."
I give him a hard look that has reliably ended discussions. Adrian holds my gaze without blinking, perfectly at ease, apparently unbothered by the fact that it's being directed at him.
"Not helping." I mutter
"I'm always helping. You just don't appreciate my methods."
"Your methods involve dropping clients to pursue opposing parties." My voice stays flat.
"I didn't drop Paula to pursue Sienna." He tilts the glass, watching the light move through it. "I dropped Paula because I found her insufferable and Sienna handed me a clean exit."
Carter makes a sound. Low, brief, almost inaudible under the music. It takes me a moment to realize it's a laugh.
I look at Carter. "You know how important this is to me."
It's the closest I get to asking. With anyone else, I'd frame it as a directive. With Carter, I can't. He's earned the right to be asked.
Carter holds my gaze. Adrian waits. The moment stretches, fills with bass and violet light and the particular quality of silence between men who have built something together and know what it cost.
"Okay," Carter says.
"Target acquired: Sienna Cross." Adrian raises his glass. When neither of us responds, he drinks alone, unbothered. "You two are no fun."
I look through the glass railing at the floor below. Bodies moving in the dark. Three hundred people who paid for the privilege of being inside something I built from nothing.
Sienna Cross gave up a fortune and asked for a house. That is either naivety or strategy. I don't care which. All I care about is that she is standing between me and what I want.
5
CARTER
"...someone we don't know, who doesn't know our design language, who hasn't seen the material boards or the grading plans, and you want to bring them in at this stage?" Marcus Hale, from Sycamore Design, is standing two feet closer than necessary, clipboard angled toward me like a weapon. "I've been on this project for weeks. My team has soil samples, drainage assessments, a full planting schedule. And now I'm supposed to accommodate a second firm?"
The morning sun sits low over the Ojai valley, catching the scaffolding on the east wing and throwing long shadows across the exposed foundation beds. The air smells like dry earth, cut lumber and diesel from the excavator idling near the north terrace.
Three months. Maybe four, with delays. Then The Vale Hotel opens, and MH Group adds its fifth hotel to the portfolio.
This one is my personal project.
William built the brand, set the standard for the clubs and restaurants, but the hotels carry my fingerprint. Our otherproperties lean toward spectacle, controlled luxury, the kind of polish that tells a guest they're paying for perfection.
The Vale is different. Understated. The architecture steps back to let the landscape lead. Oak groves, herb gardens, outdoor dining under trellis structures that follow the natural slope of the terrain. The building serves the land, not the other way around. It took me two years to find this specific parcel and another eight months to convince the right architect.
I'm proud of it. I don't say that often.
Almost ten years of building with William. And to think it started on the worst day of my life. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you is the catalyst for something better. Something with purpose.
"Mr. Hill?"
Marcus is waiting. I've been looking at the eastern ridge for longer than the conversation allows.
"The secondary firm will handle the kitchen garden," I say. "The area behind the restaurant and the orchard maintenance. Your scope doesn't change."
"With respect, it's not about scope. It's about coherence. Two different design philosophies on the same property will read as disjointed. I've seen it happen and it's never—"
"I guess it will work out by contrast." The voice comes from behind us. Female. Clear. Carrying a dry precision that makes Marcus stop mid-sentence.
"In the front, a landscape manicured to the point where it's not sustainable. In the back, a slow-gratification garden built for low maintenance and meant to last."
