When the SUV turned off the main road and slowed in front of tall iron gates, she let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, wow.”
The gates opened.
Palm trees lined the long driveway. Beyond them, the water flashed bright and blue. A dock stretched out behind the house, white posts standing clean against the bay. The house itself sat at the end of the drive like it had been waiting all week to judge us.
White stucco. Dark shutters. Red tile roof. Balconies. Columns. The kind of place that made other expensive houses look like they were still trying.
Isa stared through the windshield.
“Is your father on CNBC or something?”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because, of course, that was exactly the kind of thing she’d guess.
“Or something.”
Her eyes cut to me.
I leaned forward. “Stop here.”
The driver slowed before we reached the front circle.
Isa turned fully in the seat. “Drew.”
I reached for her wrist.
Not to hold her there.
To keep myself grounded.
“Look,” I said. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Her face went still.
Not scared.
Ready.
“This is my father’s place,” I said. “Richard Montgomery.”
Recognition flickered across her face.
Of course it did.
Everybody knew the name.
Not football famous.
Worse.
Money famous.
Richard Montgomery. Miami hedge fund king. Wall Street tycoon. Founder of Montgomery Capital. Business-news regular. The kind of man who could sit under soft studio lights on CNBC or Fox Business and talk about market corrections like he personally had the power to start one.
