Page 2 of Knotted By my Pack
One son already has.
I take my seat across from him, straightening my cuffs. My twin brother, Damien, isn’t here. He never is. He’s too busy being the golden fucking child, running his oil empire, making headlines with billion-dollar deals.
Meanwhile, I’m here—shadowboxing for my place at the table.
Around us sit the usual suspects: Patel from international development; Gerhardt from legal; my father’s right hand, Vincent Shaw; and a handful of junior execs trying not to look nervous.
A slick-suited analyst is droning on about the numbers—some struggling boutique hotel chain we’re supposed to be acquiring for pennies on the dollar. A “strategic opportunity,” according to the folder in front of me. I haven’t opened it.
Because I’m somewhere else.
I unlock my phone under the table and type:Sleepy Shore Motel. Driftwood Cove.
Nothing. No website. No press. It’s like the place doesn’t exist.
I frown, try again—justDriftwood Covethis time.
And there it is. A coastal postcard of a town I’ve never heard of. Crashing waves, weather-worn docks, a mom-and-pop bakery, fishing boats rocking in the tide. Sun dipping low over the ocean. It’s the kind of place people run to when they’re tiredof being chewed up by cities like this one. At first glance, it’s charming. But I don’t give a damn about charm.
What I see is untapped potential. A luxury resort. A high-end retail strip. A private marina with yacht charters, a golf course wrapped in sea breeze. It’s a blank canvas begging for gold leaf. A forgotten little town with just enough infrastructure to be rebuilt from the bones up.
And still—it’s not enough. Not yet.
Because money alone won’t make this place what it could be.
What it needs is vision. Power. Teeth.
What it needs—isme.
A quiet knock sounds at the boardroom door and Brielle slips inside, calm and flawless once again, heels clicking softly against the marble. Her expression is unreadable as she makes her way toward me, a tablet in hand. I don’t miss the way a few of the junior execs glance at her, then quickly look away. She’s a distraction, and she knows it.
She leans down, her perfume brushing past my jaw as she murmurs, “Printouts from legal. You left them on your desk.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the smirk in her voice.
I take the folder, set it on the table without a word. She turns to leave.
I slide my phone face down and meet my father’s gaze. “I’m passing on the acquisition.”
The room stills.
A few heads snap toward me. Someone coughs. Shaw stops typing.
Alec Vance doesn’t flinch. He folds his hands. “Why?”
I sit back. “Because I’ve found something better.”
My father’s gaze sharpens. “Excuse me?”
“This deal is dead weight,” I say, tapping the untouched folder on the table. “A failing hotel chain with outdatedbranding, inflated liabilities, and zero long-term value. We buy it, we bleed it, and maybe—maybe—we break even.”
He leans back, fingers steepled, watching me. Always calculating. Always silent until the moment you slip. “Go on.”
I slide the file aside and pull up my tablet. “Driftwood Cove,” I say, flipping it toward him. “A town no one’s looking at. Off the radar. No tourism board, no big developers, no headlines. But the location?” I swipe. “Oceanfront property. Direct access to major interstates. Undervalued land. Minimal regulation. And a charm factor that’s begging to be monetized.”
Across the table, Patel frowns. “What are you proposing?”
“Not a hotel,” I say, leaning forward now, voice calm, controlled. “An ecosystem. High-end resort with private villas. A curated retail strip—artisan shops, wellness centers, luxury dining. A private marina.
