Page 94 of Falling for the Enemy

Soren briefly considered how much Olivia’s feelings might play into her father’s decision, then chided himself for being ridiculous. This was business. His personal relationship with Warren’s daughter shouldn’t come into the discussion whatsoever.

Not to mention, he’d done nothing wrong.

He’d made no promises to break. If Warren wanted to judge him on something, it should be the company’s stability and its numbers since the transition after Magnus’s death.

His father had always been a businessman first. So much so, he viewed his fatherly role as provider as a complete substitute for being anything else in their lives. Although he did make some unscheduled, winning appearances as a bully when the mood struck.

All their lives, Soren and his brothers had lived under the oppressive shadow of a man who never handed out a word of praise, yet always felt he had an endless right to criticize their every move. If they had any worthwhile input on the company, it was either completely ignored or watered down and regurgitated as Magnus’s own concept, which was fine, because by that point, the ideas were usually so bastardized the ingenuity was lost.

Over time, he and his brothers lost interest in the company, their father’s approval, and healing the lifelong ache for his praise that would never come.

Then the son of a bitch died.

Scrolling through spreadsheet after spreadsheet, cross-referencing cost projections against the company’s current cash reserves on a split screen, Soren processed his father’s death the way he always had, with distant disregard.

Times were different now. He was moving the company into a new era of trade, one that retired the old ways of doing business in anticipation of a new age grounded in boundless technology and possibility.

His dad never understood that technology would inevitably change the world with or without his approval. Had he still been here, the fishery would have rapidly fallen behind due to his stubbornness. The world was changing faster than people realized, and anyone who hesitated to change with it was bound to be left behind in the approaching technological boom.

Twenty minutes dissolved into the span of a fleeting moment. His mind worked on two tracks as he calculated numbers and contingencies while circling the issue of his brother’s disinterest like a shark circles blood in water.

Initially, Greyson had chosen the sea over the boardroom, disappearing for months at a time to travel with the fishing crews. But that life didn’t suit a family man, so he gave it up after he and Wren settled down.

When he didn’t trade his deck boots and gloves for a suit, Soren confronted him.

Grey said he had work to do at the house in preparation for the baby, which was true. But that didn’t mean he’d eventually show up in a suit and take a seat behind a desk.

He hoped Grey would eventually take his place in the company, but with every passing month he became less hopeful that would ever happen.

His brothers didn’t need the paycheck, so there was no urgency to mend their career paths. Resentment still simmered because while they were taking their damn time, he was there every day figuring out ways to make them wealthier than they ever dreamed.

Grey, he could forgive for taking some time to build a strong family foundation. He wanted to be a good father—better than the one they grew up under, and Soren supported his decision to be more involved with Wren and the baby at home. But Logan. Logan simply wasn’t interested. Had never been interested in any meaningful way.

He checked the time. The advisors would be starting shortly, and Soren wanted to sit in.

Closing the files and locking his screen, he strolled through the corridor.

Greyson’s office sat behind glass on the north wall, with a dust-coated desk and an artifact of a filing cabinet from before the company went green. Logan’s office sat adjacent, pristine and untouched as a showroom. Honestly, he should give the spaces away, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up hope.

The corridor leading back toward the conference rooms was immaculate and silent, all sharp angles and climate-controlled air that smelled faintly of new carpet and wood polish. Soren moved through the newly renovated halls with unwavering authority. His confidence boost from the weekend rested like a hard-earned chip on the shoulder of his designer suit.

She was his…

His.

The thought carried him down the hallway, past the C-suite offices, and through the bullpen where junior analysts bent over screens. He fished out his phone and checked the screen.

Still nothing from Jocelyn.

His thumb hovered over her contact, debating if he should just make the first move. It was nearly noon. He’d expected her to text by now.

A joke. A complaint. Something.

The twinge in his gut wasn’t quite concern. Not yet. More like the slow build of anticipation stirring his nerves. Eventually, she’d text.

The receptionist nodded with a smile as Marie delegated tasks to the staff with poised authority.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne.”