Emil scanned his father’s desk with mounting dismay. All he saw was ledgers sprawled open, invoices half-sorted, contracts bleeding red ink in the margins. Olof could have cleared it with a single afternoon of discipline, but instead, he’d chosen to leave the mess as the centerpiece. It wasn’t proof of industry; it was theatre. A stage set for Emil’s guilt.
“Just working through some numbers,” Olof continued in Swedish, gesturing vaguely at the disarray. “Nothing to trouble yourself with.”
You won’t trouble yourself, was what he really meant. But Emil chose not to bite. There would be more barbs, no doubt. He stepped fully into the study and crossed to the armchair opposite his father’s desk, only to find it already occupied. The family tabby lay sprawled in a regal heap, tail twitching, eyes slitted with sleepy disdain. Emil gave it a nudge. It grumbled, but slunk to the floor with an unimpressed glare that was eerily reminiscent of its owner’s. Emil sank into the chair and crossed one ankle over his knee.
Olof studied him for a moment. “You look well.”
“Thank you. As do you.”
“I'm told we have a guest today. A young woman. Your mother is pleased.”
“Pleased is one word for it,” he said dryly. “She almost tackled Olive at the door.”
Olof’s face twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “I wasn’t aware you were interested in courting.”
Courting.
Emil stilled. He’d always detested that word. Too many implications. It suggested intent, stability—a future. And that was a far cry from the life he led. He wasn’t built for permanence. He liked his freedom. He relied on it. His work, his life, and his choices were his alone, untethered to anyone else’s demands. And yet…if permanence meant Olive, would it feel quite the same as a chain?
“I’m not,” he said, frowning at the strange kick in his chest.
“Then what are you doing with the girl if you aren’t planning to marry her?”
“She’s part of a case I’m working on, and—” He broke off at his father’s snort. “What does that hideous noise mean?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“Please, you first.”
Olof shrugged. “I didn’t realize becoming personally involved was part of a private investigator’s protocol.”
“It isn’t. I’m helping her?—”
“Helping her?” Olof’s voice rose slightly, disbelief creeping in. He leaned forward, fingers steepled. “You’re playing hero to a stranger while ignoring your own family?”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“Why not? She’s not your family. She’s not even your responsibility. She’s your case.”
Emil stood abruptly, the chair scraping the rug. “You don’t know a thing about her.”
“You’re right, I don’t. And it hardly signifies, not when?—”
“Not when I owe blind loyalty to Nordstar Yachts. I know, I know.”
“How could you know anything when you won’t stick around long enough to hear me out?”
Emil gave a bitter laugh. “Pot kettle black, Far.”
Olof’s breath hissed through his teeth. “I’ve spent years building something meant to outlast me. Every late night, every missed birthday—I told myself it was worth it. Because one day I would be able to give it all to my children. Do you know how much it costs me to sit here and beg my son to care?”
“I do care, but not the way you want. You don’t ask me to help, you expect it. You dangle guilt and obligation like bait.”
“Yet this girl twitches a finger and you go running?—”
Emil’s hands fisted. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”
Olof’s chest rose with a sharp inhale. “Fine. I won’t. As you say, I don’t know her. But I know you, Emil. I know your talents. Your skills. Both of which Nordstar desperately needs.”
