My father arrives in Denver Thursday morning unannounced, which is his signature power move. He doesn't schedule visits—he materializes when he's decided your life needs his intervention.
I'm in my office pretending to review contracts when he walks in without knocking. Six-foot-four of Alpha authority wrapped in Tom Ford and barely contained disapproval.
"We need to talk about Montgomery Legal," no greeting, just straight to the throat.
"Hello to you too, Dad," I lean back in my chair, going for casual while my wolf immediately goes on high alert. "Coffee? Water? Stern lecture about my life choices?"
"Dinner tonight at Le Bernardin, seven o'clock," he's already pulling out his phone, typing with the speed of someone who doesn't accept no as an answer. "Robert Montgomery and his daughter. We're settling this expansion situation before it becomes a problem."
My stomach does this fun acrobatic routine. "Caroline's coming?"
His eyes snap to mine, sharp. "You know the daughter?"
"We've met," understatement of the fucking century but I'm not elaborating under his interrogation stare.
"How well?" The question comes loaded with subtext I'm definitely not unpacking right now.
"Enough," I'm already calculating exit strategies while simultaneously having zero intention of using them. "She's competent and smart, and handles herself well in negotiations."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
Mother Moon, he knows something. He can smell the disaster radiating off me or read my microexpressions or has that parental sixth sense that detects when you're fucking up spectacularly.
"Dad—"
"Seven o'clock. Wear something that doesn't make you look like you slept in your office." He's at the door before I can respond. "And Lysander? Whatever's happening with the Montgomery girl, handle it carefully. Robert's not someone you want as an enemy."
He leaves and I sit there with my heart rate doing things that should require medical attention.
Dinner with Caroline and Magnus, and her father who apparently knows enough about us that my father's concerned.
My phone buzzes with the text from an unknown number: Heard you're joining us for dinner tonight. It should be interesting, so wear something nice.—C
I type back: Define nice, as I have a reputation for disappointing paternal expectations.
Her response is immediate: Surprise me, but nothing pink. That's my territory.
My wolf does this thing where it perks up with interest it absolutely shouldn't have. I'm actively trying to protect my company from her father's acquisition plans while also wanting to see her in whatever power suit she's wearing in this diplomatic nightmare.
Le Bernardin is exactly what you'd expect from Magnus—oppressive elegance, prices that require taking out a second mortgage, the kind of place that makes you whisper even when you're planning someone's destruction.
Magnus is already here. Sitting at the best table with the kind of presence that makes waitstaff nervous and other diners stare.
Robert Montgomery sits across from him—early sixties, silver hair, sharp eyes that miss nothing. Corporate shark in Armani who built an empire from nothing and clearly isn't impressed by Alpha posturing.
Caroline in a navy suit that should be boring but isn't, hair up in that professional updo, minimal jewelry except for pearl earrings that probably cost more than my car. She sees me and her face does surprise, wariness, something else I can't quite read.
I walk over and she stands, meeting me halfway. She kisses my cheek before I can react.
The contact sends electricity straight down my spine. My wolf practically howls, with every nerve ending I have lights up screaming MATE in ways that should be impossible with a human.
She turns to Magnus with that same professional courtesy. "Mr. Fenris, thank you for the invitation. My father and I appreciate you taking time to discuss partnership opportunities."
"I understand you and my son have already met," Magnus says carefully.
"We had coffee," Caroline's smile is perfectly calibrated. "Several times actually before we realized who each other really were."
Magnus looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. Assessment mixed with something else, concern maybe, or recognition. Somehow he fucking knows about the pull I'm feeling, the bond that shouldn't exist with a human but is currently making my wolf do backflips every time Caroline shifts in her seat.
"Lysander has a talent for complicated situations," Robert offers dryly. "From what I understand, he's built quite the reputation in Colorado. Youngest Fenris heir proving himself outside his brother's shadow."
Magnus's jaw tightens imperceptibly.
"My son has exceeded expectations," he says with the kind of edge that makes the temperature drop. "Fenris Colorado has seen remarkable growth under his leadership."
"Which is exactly why we're interested in partnership," Robert's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Consolidation benefits everyone: your expertise, our resources, a true merging of strengths."
Dinner begins, with surface-level pleasantries masking calculation on both sides.
I find myself watching Caroline. The way she holds her wine glass. How she engages Magnus in conversation about Denver's legal market with genuine knowledge instead of rehearsed talking points. The small smile when she catches me staring.
"So Lysander," she turns that smile on me fully. "How's the fancy latte education going? Have you tried anything new since Wednesday's disaster?"
Magnus's eyebrows lift. Robert watches this interaction with visible interest.
"Still recovering from rose cardamom trauma," I say, playing along. "You've ruined black coffee for me, so I hope you're proud of that destruction."
Her eyes sparkle. "Corrupting corporate tastes is basically my hobby."
The tension shifts. We're flirting and negotiating simultaneously, Magnus and Robert watching this play out with varying degrees of concern.
"Caroline graduated top of her class at Stanford," Robert offers. "Youngest partner at her previous firm. She's been instrumental in Montgomery's expansion strategy."
"Lysander built Fenris Colorado from three employees to fifty in two years," Magnus counters. "Youngest executive in our company's history."
We're being positioned. Shown off, used as chess pieces in whatever game our fathers are playing.
"Perhaps," Caroline says with honey-coated steel, "we should discuss actual business instead of comparing our respective offspring's résumés."
Robert laughs. "She has a point."
The conversation shifts. Partnership terms, market analysis, strategic positioning. Caroline contributes as much as her father—maybe more. She's sharp as hell, sees angles I haven't considered, presents counterarguments that actually make me work.
Magnus notices. I see his assessment shifting from "the daughter tagging along" to "actual threat who happens to be female and attractive."
"The Colorado market can support both firms," Caroline argues. "Competition drives innovation, and forcing merger eliminates that creative tension."
"Or it eliminates redundancy," I counter. "Two firms doing similar work, competing for the same clients. Merger makes financial sense."
"For Fenris maybe," her smile gets sharper. "Montgomery doesn't need you, as we'd prefer partnership but we'll establish presence regardless."
There it is. The fangs I've been waiting for, with Caroline in full predator mode, defending territory while wearing pearls and that devastating smile.
My wolf practically purrs. Magnus looks between us with visible confusion.
"You're enjoying this," Robert observes quietly.
"Professional discourse is important," I deflect, but I'm absolutely enjoying this. Caroline matching me argument for argument, neither backing down, both circling for advantage.
She meets my eyes across the table and holds the contact for exactly three seconds. Long enough to communicate something without words. Recognition, challenge, and interest despite the opposition.
The bond pulls tighter. I feel it in my chest—that thread I've been trying to ignore since the grocery store, now humming with enough intensity I'm surprised
Magnus can't see it glowing between us, but his expression says he knows I'm compromised, that whatever's happening across this table isn't purely professional.
And Caroline—Caroline's looking at me with heat that has nothing to do with corporate warfare and everything to do with Wednesday morning's kiss on my cheek.
Conversation continues but I've lost the thread. Too busy watching Caroline's mouth form words, her hands gesture emphasis, the way she commands space despite being the youngest person at this table.
This is what power looks like wrapped in pink aesthetic and Stanford credentials. Someone who can go from fancy lattes to hostile negotiations without missing a beat.
I'm completely fucked. And the worst part is that I wouldn't have it any other way.