Page 137 of Faultlines

“Sure,” Ellie replies, her voice dripping with skepticism.

“That is definitely why a billionaire sent a chauffeur to pick you up.”

“Sloane.”

“I am just pointing out the facts.”

I grab my coat from the hook by the door.

Ellie follows me, her gaze fixed on the SUV. “Can I tell Grandpa?”

“No.”

“Can I tell Mona?”

“No.”

“Can I tell literally anyone?”

“No.”

Sloane is already pulling out her phone, the screen lighting up her face. “I’m live-texting the family chat right now. Full commentary.”

“You are not.”

“Claire, if a mysterious luxury SUV arrives to transport my recently separated cousin to dinner with a wealthy developer, that is a five-alarm family event. They need to know.”

Lucy nods, her expression serious. “She has a point.”

My voice is a frustrated hiss. “I hate you both.”

A minute later, I climb into the waiting SUV. Through the tinted window, I watch Ellie, her expression is an odd mix of concern and curiosity. As the vehicle pulls away, I glance back toward the house.

I don’t know who Sloane is furiously texting, but I am absolutely certain I won’t like the answer. Judging by the smug expression on her face, I have a feeling the entire town might know about my dinner meeting before I arrive at the restaurant.

Perched on a bluff overlooking the water in Saltwind Point, the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows make it look like the inside of a magazine. The valet area is a gleaming testament to expensive cars. Elegant icicle-shaped lights wind around the bare trees, illuminating the entrance.

Stepping out of the SUV, I smooth my dress and remind myself this is a business meeting. Sloane’s seventeen “Billionaire Summit” references before I left the ranch are irrelevant.

Inside, the air carries the faint scent of garlic and expensive perfume. I’m greeted by a hostess who leads me through the lit dining room.

Daniel rises from his table as I approach. Marisol’s description of him as “dangerously handsome” is unnecessarily dramatic, yet not entirely inaccurate. He’s tall and impeccably dressed, but what strikes me most is his palpable comfort in his own skin. There’s no arrogance or need to impress, just a confidence born from self-knowledge.

“Claire. Thank you for coming.” His voice is a smooth baritone.

“Thank you for the invitation.”

He pulls out my chair, waiting until I’m seated before taking his own. Within minutes, we’re discussing the proposal. He knows far more about residential programs than I expect. He asks thoughtful questions about staffing models, educational partnerships, transportation barriers, and long-term sustainability.

Instead of dictating how the program should operate, he seems interested in understanding its current workings.

The more we talk, the more impressed I become. Most wealthy donors seek to put their names on buildings. Daniel wants to understand how to help the children who will live inside one.

“What makes you interested in this?” I ask.

A subtle shift occurs in his expression.

“My father died when I was young. My mother struggled after that. Eventually, I ended up in a group home.”