Page 73

"That's the conventional approach," she acknowledged. "But Westlake isn't a conventional development. You're not just selling square footage; you're selling status. Identity. Belonging to a select group with access to something extraordinary."

I watched her as she spoke, admiring the confidence in her presentation, the way she commanded attention without apparent effort.

This was Savannah in her element—insightful, strategic, uncompromising in her vision.

"The penthouses should be your statement pieces," she continued. "Announce only three available initially, even if you have more. Create a whisper campaign targeting specific high-net-worth individuals who align with the Westlake lifestyle. Make them compete for the privilege of ownership."

Reynolds looked to me, clearly expecting me to side with the established Turner Holdings approach. Instead, I found myself nodding.

"She's right," I said simply. "The market has shifted. Exclusivity drives premium sales in this climate."

"I agree with Savannah," Miles chimed in—eager to align himself with her, to claim credit for bringing her insight to theproject. "We should restructure the entire marketing timeline around this approach."

My jaw tightened at his transparent attempt to position himself as her champion. As if he had any claim to her brilliance, her vision, her value.

"Reynolds," I said, my tone brooking no argument, "work with Ms. Blake to develop this strategy further. I want a comprehensive plan on my desk by the end of the week."

"Of course, sir," he agreed, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

"I could help coordinate," Miles offered, moving closer to Savannah. "Since I brought Savannah into the project initially."

Before I could respond, the door to the sales center opened, admitting Philip Knowles—lead investor in the Westlake project and notorious playboy despite being well into his fifties. His reputation with young, attractive women was well-established in business circles.

"Lucas!" he called, crossing the room with the confident stride of a man accustomed to commanding attention. "Apologies for missing the tour. Helicopter was delayed."

I accepted his handshake with practiced cordiality, making the necessary introductions. When he reached Savannah, his demeanor shifted subtly—his smile widening, his gaze lingering a beat too long on her face before dropping briefly to assess the rest of her.

"Ms. Blake," he said, retaining her hand longer than necessary.

"A pleasure. Lucas didn't mention his marketing consultant was so... impressive."

She withdrew her hand with practiced grace, her smile professional but cool. "Thank you, Mr. Knowles. I was just discussing our approach to the penthouse units."

"I'd love to hear your thoughts," he said, positioning himself beside her with the smooth assurance of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. "Perhaps over drinks? I have some additional investors who might be interested in the project."

The suggestion was transparent in its underlying intent—business serving as pretext for personal interest. I'd seen Knowles use the same approach countless times, had never particularly cared how he conducted his personal affairs as long as his investments remained solid.

Now, watching him angle his body toward Savannah, watching his gaze drop to her lips as she responded politely, something dark and possessive uncoiled within me.

"Savannah already has plans this evening," I said, my voice carrying easily across the small gathering.

"She's dining with me to discuss her broader involvement with Turner Holdings."

All eyes turned to me—Miles with surprise, Reynolds with professional interest, Knowles with knowing amusement.

Savannah's expression remained neutral, though a flush crept up her neck.

"Another time, then," Knowles conceded with a slight nod in my direction. He hadn't missed the underlying message in my intervention—one alpha male recognizing another's claim.

The remainder of the meeting proceeded without incident, though I caught Miles watching me with a puzzled expression.

My intervention had been unusual—I rarely involved myself in the social dynamics of business meetings, leaving such maneuvering to those who enjoyed it.

But the thought of Knowles pursuing Savannah, of his hands on her, his eyes undressing her, his practiced seduction techniques being applied to her—it triggered something primitive and unyielding in me.

Something I hadn't experienced in decades, if ever.

As the meeting concluded, I managed to position myself near Savannah as she gathered her materials, ensuring a moment of relative privacy as the others moved toward the exit.