Terms of Engagement

ARIANA POV

The metal beneath my fingertips vibrated faintly as I tightened the final bolt into place.

“Torque wrench,” I called from underneath the car.

A moment later, my father’s hand appeared beside the hydraulic lift, the tool already waiting for me without question. Robert Barlowe never needed things explained twice when it came to engines.

“Twenty bucks says it’s the stabiliser link,” he said.

I snorted softly and seated the wrench on the bolt beneath the vintage Aston Martin. “Twenty bucks says you’re developing hearing loss in your old age.”

“Oh, disrespectful now too?”

“Only professionally.”

My father laughed somewhere above me, the sound echoing warmly through the private garage.

Most people expected billionaire families to spend their Saturdays on yachts or at charity luncheons.

The Barlowes rebuilt engines.

At least, the Barlowe men did.

And I had refused to be excluded from that tradition by something as irrelevant as gender before I’d even learned long division.

I pulled once more until the wrench clicked, satisfaction settling neatly into place with the correct torque.

“There,” I muttered, sliding out from beneath the car on the oil-stained creeper. I pushed myself upright and wiped the back of my wrist across my forehead. “It’s fixed.”

I placed the wrench back in the toolbox. “If this thing rattles again after today, I’m setting it on fire.”

My father looked horrified. “That sounds expensive.”

“You can afford another one.”

“Emotionally, I’m attached to this car.”

“That’s because you’re fifty-two and dramatic.”

“I’m fifty-two and right.”

I rolled my eyes despite the smile tugging at my mouth.

My father looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t actually done much besides hand me tools and make unnecessary commentary. He leaned against the workbench nearby, broad shoulders relaxed beneath a charcoal Henley already stained with grease. His light brown hair was lightly streaked with silver now, though it somehow only made him look more intimidating. After all these years, he still carried himself like the man who had built half of Cedarbrook through grit, stubbornness, and the firm belief that most problems could be solved with enough pressure.

Then he grinned.

“You’ve got grease on your face.”

I glanced at him flatly. “You’re literally covered in engine oil.”

“Yes, but I’m handsome enough to pull it off.”

“You say that like Mum wasn’t visually carrying this family.”

That earned a bark of laughter from him just as another voice entered the garage.

“She certainly wasn’t getting help from either of you.”

I turned toward the entrance.

My grandfather stood there in an immaculate navy suit that probably cost more than some people’s annual salaries, silver hair perfectly styled despite the humid Cedarbrook afternoon.

Adam Barlowe looked deeply unimpressed.

His gaze moved slowly over my grease-smudged black tank top, ripped jeans, and oil-marked hands.

“This,” he informed my father, “is not how daughters should be raised.”

Then he sighed heavily. “Honestly, Robert. Look at her.”

My father only laughed, entirely unrepentant. “She’d never speak to me again if I tried keeping her away from cars.”

“I absolutely would not,” I agreed.

Adam pointed at me immediately. “See? Exactly my point.”

I smiled despite myself and reached for the rag beside the workbench.

I looked far more like my mother than anyone else in the family. My auburn hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes came straight from Chloe Barlowe. People noticed me before I even spoke because of it.

Unfortunately for them, the rest of me came from my father.

The ambition.

The stubbornness.

The fire.

The refusal to back down from anything once my mind was made up.

It had made me very successful in business and deeply exhausting to argue with.

“You know,” my grandfather muttered, “your grandmother once said letting your father near heavy machinery as a child would end in lawsuits.”

My father looked offended. “And yet here I am.”

“Barely.”

I bit back a laugh.

My father pushed away from the workbench and walked toward the Aston, clearly inspecting my work. “You tightened the stabiliser link?”

“Obviously.”

“You checked both sides?”

I stared at him. “Dad.”

“Just making sure.”

“You taught me how to rebuild an engine at fourteen.”

“And I’m still making sure.”

Adam scoffed softly. “You hover over her like she’s still twelve.”

My father didn’t even deny it. “Have you met men?”

I groaned. “Dad.”

“What? It’s a reasonable concern.”

“It is not a reasonable concern while I’m holding a socket wrench.”

“It is always a reasonable concern.”

I threw the rag at him.

He caught it with one hand, still smiling.

Adam shook his head, though there was affection beneath the disapproval. “She came home from finance lectures and still wanted to rebuild engines in this garage. That should have told us something had gone terribly wrong.”

“Nothing went wrong,” my father said. “She learned balance.”

“Balance?” Adam repeated.

I gestured at the Aston. “Corporate finance by day, suspension systems by evening. Perfectly balanced.”

My father’s expression softened, just slightly. “You were always going to learn both.”

I looked away before the warmth in his voice could do something inconvenient to my chest.

Robert Barlowe had always been overprotective where I was concerned. Excessively so, according to literally everyone who knew him. But I had long ago accepted that no amount of success, boardroom victories, or high-value deals would stop him from looking at me like I still needed protecting.

It irritated me.

It also anchored me.

Both could be true.

“You never do make anything easy, do you?” my father muttered.

“I learned from the best.”

He shot me a look that said accurate but annoying.

Then his expression shifted.

Not much.

Only enough.

Business mode.

I noticed instantly.

The Barlowes had built an empire on reading rooms before words were spoken.

“What?” I asked.

“I need a favour tonight,” he said, too casually.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet.”

“I know your tone.”

“I need you to attend an event.”

“I already have plans.”

“You do not.”

I paused. “That’s honestly invasive.”

He ignored me completely. “There’s an investor rooftop event at the Grand Cedar Hotel. I was supposed to attend with your mother, but she’s still running a fever and I don’t want to leave her alone.”

My irritation softened. “Is it still that bad?”

“She’s fine,” he assured me immediately. “Just exhausted. The doctor told her to rest, which apparently offended her personally.”

That sounded exactly like my mother.

I tossed a rag onto the counter. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Take Riley with you.”

“Obviously.”

Adam stepped closer then, his expression sharpening in that particular way it always did when business entered the conversation.

“And while you’re there,” he said, “you should introduce yourself to Zachary Beckett.”

Now that caught my attention.

The Beckett Group operated at a level most companies could only dream about. The Barlowes were obscenely wealthy — enough that money had stopped being a practical concern generations ago — but the Becketts existed in a different category of influence. Hotels. Golf estates. Luxury spa resorts. High-end international developments stretching across multiple continents.

They didn’t simply build properties.

They built entire worlds around them.

I folded my arms slowly. “I heard something about a new coastal resort.”

My father nodded. “Grand West. And the expansion plans attached to it. Luxury villas, golf estate infrastructure, retail frontage, service roads, possible marina-adjacent development. They’ve officially opened tenders for the first phase, with framework potential beyond that.”

Now that was worth suffering through irritating conversations.

My interest shifted from mild curiosity to genuine focus, especially after the merger.

Seven months earlier, Barlowe Holdings had merged its construction-supplies arm with Kendrick Construction, creating one of the largest vertically integrated construction groups in the country. Barlowe-Kendrick could now bring materials, procurement, logistics, civil works, and construction delivery into a single coordinated model.

Not perfectly.

Nothing that large was ever perfect.

But cleaner. Faster. Less exposed to supplier chaos than most of the market.

And if we handled it properly, more profitable.

I had been part of that work from the inside. Acquisitions. Investor negotiations. Supplier strategy. Integration planning. The kind of unglamorous, relentless restructuring that made a company look effortless only after everyone had stopped sleeping properly.

At twenty-six, I was already overseeing expansion deals that required people to stop seeing me as Robert Barlowe’s daughter and start listening to the numbers in front of them.

Some did.

Some needed encouragement.

I was very good at encouragement.

A Beckett contract would push Barlowe-Kendrick even further.

Not merely one project, either.

A possible pipeline: Hotels, resorts, golf estates, spa developments. Future phases.

A relationship that could reposition us in the luxury development market if we played it correctly.

My mind was already moving ahead six steps: projected margins, material allocation, supplier exposure, regional capacity, brand positioning.

My father was watching me with poorly concealed amusement. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The terrifying world-domination stare. Like you’re mentally taking over markets.”

My grandfather looked deeply amused. “She got that from you too.”

I ignored both of them. “Do we know who’s leading the expansion?”

“Zachary Beckett personally,” my father replied. “From what I’ve heard, he’s heavily involved in all major development decisions.”

My grandfather made a quiet sound of disapproval. “He’s difficult.”

My father scoffed. “That’s a polite way of saying arrogant.”

“Controlled,” my grandfather corrected.

“Cold,” my father countered.

“Ruthless.”

“Successful.”

My interest sharpened as I considered that.

Men like Zachary Beckett did not become successful by accident. If he had control over the development portfolio, he either deserved it, inherited it, or had convinced enough important people that the difference no longer mattered.

“What’s his angle?” I asked.

My father shrugged once. “Thirty years old. Took over most of the company operations three years ago after one of their overseas acquisitions nearly collapsed.”

“And fixed it,” Adam added reluctantly. “Fast.”

“Efficiently enough that investors now treat him like he walks on water,” my father said.

I hummed thoughtfully.

Competent.

Dangerous.

Probably insufferable.

Interesting.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do tonight?” I asked.

My father’s grin returned slowly.

“Charm him.”

I looked at him, horrified.

“I work in corporate strategy, Dad. Not emotional manipulation.”

My grandfather barked out a laugh.

My father looked entirely unconvinced. “Same skill set when people have egos. The initial introduction needs to go well. I’ve arranged a proposal meeting with their group tomorrow morning.”

That was exactly the kind of opportunity I had spent years working toward.

Not because the Barlowes needed more money.

They didn’t.

But because I understood my father better than most people did. Robert Barlowe had spent half his life proving he was more than the family name he inherited. I understood that instinct intimately. I had inherited the same relentless need to build something undeniable.

A Beckett partnership would be undeniable.

“Do you really think charm will work on the type of man you two just described?” I asked dryly.

“I want you to make sure he remembers Barlowe-Kendrick before he walks into that boardroom tomorrow.”

“That’s not charm. That’s positioning.”

“See?” My father smiled. “You’re already better at it.”

I shook my head, already regretting agreeing to the event.

Still, as I glanced back toward the Aston Martin, my mind had already left the garage. It was moving through tender documents, projected costs, supplier chains, negotiation angles, and the kind of strategic opening most companies never got close enough to see.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it sat Zachary Beckett.

Controlled.

Cold.

Difficult.

Fine.

If he wanted to be difficult, I could be prepared.

I had been raised by Barlowes.

Difficulty was practically a family language.

CHARACTER AESTHETICS