Page 13 of Ariel’s Possessive Prince

Chapter 7

Everett

Engineering is a bright cave of stainless steel and whiteboards. People look up when we enter. Mutters ripple, followed by smiles. I introduce Ariel as the woman who saved my stubborn hide, and she’s instantly surrounded by warm curiosity and a volley of questions. To her credit, she doesn’t shrink. She listens, then points to a map and marks her “odd algae” spot with a neat fingernail. She suggests sample depths, asks whether our fluorometer is calibrated for freshwater pigments, then laughs shyly as if the question slipped out before she could measure it.

I watch my people fall a little in love with her, because how could they not?

“You know your stuff,” I say, impressed.

She hesitates. “I’ve always loved the water,” she says carefully. “Swimming, diving… anything to do with nature. I knew about ecosystems, currents, marine life from a young age. It’s a… passion of mine.”

“Is that what you were doing in the lake the day you saved me?”

“Yes. I love that place,” Ariel says wistfully. “I swim for peace. The world feels quieter underwater. Cleaner.” She turns to me, her lips curving into a breathtaking smile that steals my breath clean out of my lungs.

I’m riding that golden current when a shadow falls across the doorway. My father’s presence has its own weather system. It’s barometric.

“So,” he says, taking in the scene, his gaze landing on Ariel like a hawk considering a mouse, “this is the person who rescued you. Thank you.”

He pivots to leave. No handshake. No smile. Minimum gratitude.

“Dad, wait,” I say, stepping into his path. “Ariel’s found herself in a tight spot. I’m⁠—”

He peels a crisp hundred from his wallet, presses it into Ariel’s palm like he’s tipping a valet, and turns on his heel.

My jaw tightens. Ariel blinks at the bill like it’s a strange leaf. Ricky appears at my elbow with impeccable timing.

“Ricky, would you walk Ariel back to my office?” I ask quietly, eyes on my father’s retreating back. “I need a minute.”

“Sure thing.” Ricky offers Ariel his arm in a gentlemanly gesture and steers her out.

I catch up with Dad in the hall and let him thunderstorm into his office first. He heads for the antique mahogany slab he calls a desk (midlife crisis, mahogany edition) and plants both hands on it.

“I don’t trust that girl,” he says, not bothering with pleasantries. “You can’t bring just anyone in here. What if she’s a corporate spy?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You still have ears everywhere, I see.”

“And why shouldn’t I when you’re parading a spy around our lab?” he snaps. “Why else would she watch you at the marina? How does she know so much about your equipment?”

“Because she has eyes and a brain? Because I took a swim in front of her?” My temper pricks as I sit in the chair opposite. “Ariel is not a spy. She knows the lake. She can point to exact spots, to currents and dead zones. If we want to help the waterways, she could be a useful addition as a consultant or a community liaison. She’s already spotted things we’ve missed.”

A calculating look flashes in my father’s eyes for a second before it’s erased. “Out of the question,” he says, flat and final. “I don’t want her wandering around my projects, asking awkward questions, and giving my contractors excuses to slow us down. She’ll be a liability.”

“I think you’ll find they’re my contractors, whom I interviewed and approved,” I snap. “And Ariel isn’t a problem. She cares about the water, the environment.”

He chuckles, a dry, humorless sound that grates. “Caring,” he repeats, rolling the word like it’s foreign on his tongue. “That’s a lovely sentiment, but it doesn’t pay salaries. You want to run a charity, Everett? Start one. Just don’t do it under my roof.”

I glare at him. “Isn’t that the whole point of the company you built? Because you cared about the environment?”

“I built this company to win,” he says simply, voice cool as cut glass. “And because optics matter. People like the idea of a savior—they’ll pay for it. Whether you actually save them is irrelevant as long as the water looks blue on the brochure.”

Disbelief coils in my chest. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

He shrugs, already bored. “You’ve always been too idealistic. I’m pragmatic. You think the world changes because a few people pick up trash? It changes because someone makes it profitable.”

“That’s not leadership,” I say, my voice low. “That’s cynicism with a marketing budget.”

His lips twitch. “And yet it keeps the lights on. Which is more than your little nature girl could do. Keep her out of my business, Everett. I don’t need distractions or idealists stirring up my teams. We have enough scrutiny as it is.”