The White Stone: Faith at the Edge of the Deal by Scott Meinke

Chapter One ...

The Closer

Luke Chambers attacked life the way he played defense on the soccer field-shoulders squared, eyes locked, unwilling to let anything past him. On the field, he played with grit, not flash. In class, he was the guy who took meticulous notes when no one else did. That same intensity propelled him from a small Division 3 soccer program in Illinois to the brink of something much bigger. It all started with a message on Luke's answering machine:

"Luke, this is Marcus Ballam with Midwest Prairie Insurance Company. I'd like to discuss an opportunity that could be a game-changer for you. We've never met, but we have something in common. Sigma Tau."

Luke listened to the message twice. Midwest Prairie Insurance Company-MPIC was one of the fastest-growing insurance carriers in the country. It was known for its bold strategies, an unconventional culture, and a knack for transforming hungry rookies into seasoned professionals. It wasn't just a place to work-it was "The Place". This was the kind of call he'd been working toward throughout his college experience-the reason for the long nights, the extra courses, the discipline that set him apart when others coasted. Now, someone had noticed.

Marcus Ballam wasn't a name Luke recognized, but the mention of their shared fraternity got Luke's attention. He called Marcus back the next morning.

"Luke," Marcus said, his voice warm and polished-like someone who could make you feel welcome in a room he was already rearranging to his advantage. The conversation flowed easily, but every question felt purposeful, and each compliment was placed like a chess piece.

It was charming, Luke realized. But not the casual kind.

"I was flipping through the national fraternity newsletter," Marcus continued smoothly, "and there it was—a little write-up about your senior soccer season. "The Closer,' right? The guy who brought home the victory if your team had a lead at the end of a game?"

Luke chuckled. “Yeah, I remember that piece. Wasn't expecting it to go national."

"Oh, it went national," Marcus said, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And it stuck with me. Because around here, closing isn't just a nice skill-it's survival. And we're hunting for people who can survive."

Luke leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised.

Marcus didn't pause. "We don't need talkers. We need finishers—the ones who see blood in the water and move in for the kill. Make the sale, protect the account, keep the client from wandering. Nothing happens without the sale. That mindset? That's what gets you on our team."

Luke thought back to those matches. Cold afternoons. Mud-slicked fields. The pounding in his chest as the clock ticked down and the opposition pressed harder. He wasn't the fastest or the flashiest, but if his team had the lead, it was safe in his hands. Or feet, rather.

It wasn't glamorous, but it earned respect. Over time, his teammates and coaches began to say it like a mantra:

"Go get the lead. Let Luke close it." Luke smiled at the memory. And now, somehow, it had opened a door.

"So, what exactly are you offering?" Luke asked.

Marcus didn't miss a beat. His smile stayed warm, but there was a flicker of calculation in his voice. "A chance to close again. Only this time, the game is business. We're not just selling policies-we're building an empire. And we need field leaders who can protect what we build and defend it as if it were their own. I think you've got the instincts for it." Luke's gut said yes before his head could catch up. "Let's talk."

The headquarters outside Chicago looked like something out of Archi- tectural Digest-glass-walled towers, water features whispering over manicured stone, and lawns trimmed with military precision. Luke felt like a high school kid who had wandered into a country club where he didn't belong.

He checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the opulent lobby. That's when his eyes caught a framed magazine cover hanging on the wall: Midwest Prairie Insurance Company and Pergamum Development: A Partnership for the Future. The image showed two CEOs shaking hands in front of a skyline, both smiling in a way that only people with absolute power do.

Marcus appeared from the elevator, cutting across the marble floor like a man who owned the lease. His handshake was firm, confident-maybe a little too confident.

"Luke Chambers. The man. The myth. The soccer machine," Marcus said with a knowing grin. "Come on, let's make some introductions."

Luke chuckled awkwardly. "I'm not sure about all that."

"Modesty. Nice touch. You'll stand out around here," Marcus said, already steering him toward the elevator while handing him the standard welcome folder. There was no mistaking it-this was a salesman who closed not with charm alone, but with intent. Marcus guided him through a maze of corridors until they reached the executive wing.

That's when Luke met the legend-Nick Layton, founder and CEO of MPIC, and the rumored kingmaker behind the firm's rising stars and reason for the significant growth.

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Nick didn't look up when Marcus knocked, still scribbling something onto a yellow legal pad with slow, deliberate strokes. The room was quiet, but it carried weight-like a sanctuary before a sermon. Reverent. Controlled. A place where the words spoken next might shape destinies.

"Is this the kid?" Nick asked, not bothering to glance up.

Marcus gave a confident nod. "Here he is. The Closer."

Finally, Nick looked up. His gaze swept over Luke like a scanner- sharp, silent, assessing. Not interest, not curiosity. Measurement.

"You ready to work?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Yes, sir," Luke replied, standing a little straighter.

Nick's tone didn't shift. "Good. Then don't waste my time. Can you close?"

Luke read the room. Maybe they wanted sincerity. Maybe swagger. He went with confidence. He met Nick's stare and said evenly, "That's what I do."

For a long moment, Nick didn't move. Then he steepled his fingers— like a preacher about to deliver a benediction... or a warning. His jaw worked slightly, then eased into a thin, humorless smile. Not amusement. Recognition. The smirk of a man who already knew the outcome.

"Offer him the job."

His eyes had already dropped back to the paperwork, as if Luke's presence no longer mattered.

Just like that, Luke was in. It was the kind of offer he had always dreamed about, a nice salary working with power players, and the validation that all the hard work in college paid off.

Still... something about the room felt off. The smiles seemed a little too polished. The compliments were too calculated. Luke tightened his grip on the welcome folder, not realizing it held more than paperwork; it included one quiet trap with his name already penciled in. But in that  moment, he walked out-still wanting what they promised. Because, for now, it felt good to be chosen.

The Executive Development Program at MPIC-known internally as the "Thoroughbreds"-pulled in twenty recruits from across the country. Polished. Poised. Power-hungry. Most were top-of-class grads from

expensive, name-brand schools. They had fake laughs but real ambition. But behind closed doors, insiders called them "the Nicks."

Each recruit was quietly shaped to think like Nick, to move like Nick, to see ethics as a sliding scale. Confidence was rewarded. Dissent was corrected. And over time, the line between initiative and manipulation began to blur. To rise in MPIC meant learning to model the founder's mindset with a mix of charisma, control, and carefully curated compromise.

Luke didn't realize it yet, but his future was already being steered. Not by fate, and not entirely by merit—but by a system that knew how to spot raw potential and quietly bend it toward its own goals. The charm, the hustle, the polish-it all played well. And somewhere, behind the scenes, someone was taking notes.

He wasn't the slickest guy in the room, but he knew how to stand out. He bartended at company mixers, helped manage yacht parties for VIP clients, and once even did a five-minute stand-up set at a corporate retreat in Scottsdale.

"Give it up for Luke Chambers-our insurance comedian," someone joked as he grabbed the mic.

Luke grinned. "So, I asked my underwriter for a quote. He says, 'Define quote.' I said, 'It's that thing standingbetween you and updating your résumé on a Windows 98 machine, my friend'."

The room erupted-especially the execs who once fired someone for quoting, but not fast or aggressive enough.

Luke knew he didn't have the most polished résumé. No Ivy League degree. No fast-track internship at a Fortune 100 firm. But he believed he had something better, something harder to teach. He could read a room, put people at ease, and make them laugh without forcing it. While others tightened their ties and rehearsed their talking points, Luke leaned into authenticity. In a world obsessed with image, he trusted that being real would take him farther than any bullet point ever could.

Luke and Lois met in their sophomore year in college. He was an overachieving athlete with a part-time job and a full-time ego. She was the education major with a calming voice, a soft laugh, and a Bible that had pages worn from use.

Lois grew up in a small country church with wooden pews, a piano that was always a little out of tune, and a pastor who doubled as the town mechanic. Her faith was steady, quiet, and foundational. Luke, on the other hand, had no real spiritual background. His Sundays in high school were spent sleeping off Saturday's exhaustion. College wasn't all that different-he built his résumé, chased internships, played soccer, and pledged the fraternity. He had fun while keeping an eye on the future.

But the first time he saw Lois-brown curls, light blue cardigan, and nose buried in a Francine Rivers novel-he knew he was in trouble.

"Is this seat taken?" he'd asked.

"It is now," she'd said with a smile.

He fell for her simple beauty and the grace that seemed to follow her like perfume. She wasn't flashy. She didn't play games. And she didn't fall for his usual charm.

So, naturally, he tried harder.

Church wasn't part of their relationship. Luke respected her faith— but mostly from a safe distance. He wasn't hostile, just busy. He knew how to bow his head politely during pre-dinner prayers and throw out a "bless you" at the right moment. That seemed to be enough.

Lois, for her part, thought she could bring him closer to God by being patient. And maybe—just maybe―love would be enough. They got married the summer after graduation. No money. No real plan. Just two cheap rings, a hand-me-down couch, and big dreams. Back in their tiny apartment, small but nicer than two recent college graduates should be living in, reality arrived early and uninvited. Luke walked in one night, loosened his tie, and collapsed on the couch. His jacket carried the faint trace of cologne tangled with the lingering salt and spice of a shrimp cocktail reception. Lois sat in the living room in sweatpants, hair in a messy bun, reading the latest Focus on the Family magazine and trying not to sound too judgmental.

"So, you're telling me..." her eyes lifted slowly - "you arranged a tequila tasting for executives who all own private yachts?"

Luke grinned. "It's called relationship building."

"It's called absurd." She shook her head and headed over to the sink.

Lois still held tight to her convictions, though she rarely pushed them on Luke. She prayed quietly. Luke worked loudly.

"They like me, Lois. That's how it works. People work with people they like." Luke defended.

"I just wonder if God likes who you're becoming." Her words were short, curt, and sharp enough to land.

Luke forced a chuckle and reached for the remote, turning on the TV as if he hadn't heard. But in his gut, the line lodged like a pebble in a shoe -too small to stop him, too sharp to forget.

At work, the Thoroughbreds were quietly at war. The final hurdle of MPIC's elite development program was in sight: territory assignments. Résumés were polished, referrals leveraged, and charm offensives launched.

Everyone had a preference, but only a few had real pull. Territories weren't handed out. Territories were won.

And Luke had one target: Florida.

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It wasn't just beaches and sunshine-it was the crown jewel of MPIC's national sales map. High-profile accounts. High-roller clients. Luxury towers. Resort chains. Private healthcare groups. The risks were massive. The premiums, even more so. But with that pressure came prestige. Florida's top producers didn't just earn bonuses; they built brands. Their names were dropped in boardrooms, printed on executive agendas, and included on offsite guest lists where filet mignon was served and strategy sessions wrapped up with tequila toasts.

Marcus had once said it bluntly: "If you can make it in Florida, you can make it anywhere."

Florida was MPIC's Wall Street-money, pressure, image—and no margin for second-guessing. It also had a quieter, well-known reality: shortcuts were as common as sunshine. Luke knew the risks. But he wanted it anyway.

One afternoon, an insider pulled Luke aside and nodded subtly toward the glass wall of the CEO's office.

"You want to stand out from the other Nicks?" the rep asked, using  the insider nickname for the Thoroughbreds—each one trained to think, speak, and move like Nick Layton himself. "Don't just echo him. Anticipate him. Talk like him. Think like him. That's how you get Florida."

It sounded like advice. But to Luke, it landed more like a warning. At MPIC, standing out wasn't about originality. It was about precision mimicry. Nick didn't just want people reading from the same book-he wanted everyone on the same page... the same sentence... the same word. Luke found himself slipping into the rhythm without realizing it. He repeated Nick's pet phrases in meetings, in emails, in pitch calls: "Pain is leverage."

"Uncertainty is just market potential."

"Control the story, and you control the outcome."

At first, it felt like a strategy. Efficient. Professional. Maybe even brilliant. But deep down, something in him resisted. Not loud. Just... tight. Like a suit tailored for someone else, and he was expected to wear it anyway. He still wanted Florida. Maybe needed it. To prove he wasn't just the likable kid from a small Illinois college. To prove he could play on the biggest stage. To silence the doubt that he was just lucky to be in the room at all. One night over dinner, he pitched it to Lois. "You love the beach. I love winning. It's perfect." She smiled faintly. "I'd settle for less money and more dinner at home."

"Give me a year. Then we can coast."

"You mean, like those yacht parties?" she teased.

Luke grinned. "Exactly."

But deep down, she wasn't smiling.

It happened during a training trip to Nashville. Luke was there for a regional sales development session-three days of breakout groups, role-plays, and PowerPoints with titles like "Close the Gap: Moving from Conversation to Conversion.”

The hotel lobby smelled like stale coffee and ambition. Everywhere he turned, reps swapped war stories about clients, commissions, and closing ratios. On the second night, after dinner, Luke met Ray Dolan.  Ray was a legend-fifteen years with MPIC, sharp wit, big client dinners, and an uncanny ability to hit his numbers no matter what the market was doing. Late forties. Cowboy boots with his suit. A laugh like gravel in a tin can. They sat side by side at a debrief session. Ray's folder was stuffed with quotes and sticky notes, his eyes calculating something in the margins.

"Trying to land a bonus," Ray said without looking up. "Three days left and I'm sixty grand short."

Luke raised an eyebrow.

"The deal's closed," Ray continued, lowering his voice. "But the insured wants the policy to start Monday. That'll push it into next quarter. No bind, no bonus." Ray smirked. "So, I backdate it. Bind for Friday, issue docs next week. No one cares. Everyone wins."

Luke hesitated. "Isn't that... not exactly ethical?"

Ray chuckled. "Ethics is knowing the rules. Strategy is knowing how to use them. Premium's right, coverage is the same, client's happy, corporate gets its numbers, I get my bonus. No one's harmed."

He slid a napkin toward Luke with six words scrawled across it: Bend the date. Bank the bonus.

Luke stared at it. This wasn't in any training binder. This was insider knowledge-real-world survival tactics. He filed it away, the question coiling tighter in his mind: Was this a skill worth keeping... or the first rung on the wrong ladder?

One weekend, Marcus invited Luke on a "client ride-along”—a field trip to see how the big boys sold. The dinner with the client was extravagant-every detail curated to impress. The bone-in ribeye arrived seared to perfection, paired with a bottle of something French he couldn't pronounce but pretended to enjoy. Waitstaff hovered like stagehands while Marcus held court, spinning inflated numbers about MPIC's projected growth. Every word was smooth, every laugh rehearsed. Luke sipped the wine and nodded along, a polished participant in a scene he once only watched from afar. Just months ago, dinner was boxed macaroni on a folding table. Now, he sat under chandeliers with decision-makers who wore confidence like custom suits.

I belong here, he told himself again, steadying his posture. His hand brushed the cell phone in his pocket, the latest flip model, shiny chrome with a stubby antenna. It didn't do much, but it looked important. Another badge of arrival. He'd even bought one for Lois, not because she needed it, but because image mattered. Matching devices. Matching ambition. They looked like success. And that, for now, was enough.

Every bite tasted like proof he'd arrived. He had earned this. The food. The wine. The company of power players who spoke in deals and drank like kings. However, the bill would arrive in more ways than one, sooner than he expected.

After dinner, Marcus charmed the waitress until she slipped him her number. That night, due to a hotel mix-up, Luke and Marcus shared a room. Marcus didn't come back until 7 a.m.

The next morning, hungover and unapologetic, Marcus sipped black coffee, still looking rough from the night before. His voice was low but firm.

"Listen, kid. This business? It's about results... but it's also about trust. We're building something big, and we don't have room for weak links."

He fixed his eyes on Luke.  "So, tell me can we trust you?”

Luke met his gaze without hesitation. “Absolutely."

Marcus nodded, satisfied. "I knew you got it. You understand what it takes. You're gonna go far here."

When he got home, Lois noticed immediately.

"You okay?" she asked gently, watching Luke unlace his shoes in the entryway.

He shrugged without looking up. "Just tired."

She waited-hoping for more. A sentence. A sigh. A signal. But nothing came. He moved past her toward the kitchen, tore open a protein bar he kept stashed by the coffee maker, and flipped on the TV like it had been a long, ordinary day. But it didn't feel ordinary. Not to her.

Lois stood in the doorway for a long time after he walked past, arms crossed over her chest, watching the man she married morph into someone harder to reach with every passing week. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning her shoulder against the frame. "Lord... I don't know how to reach him anymore. But You do. Keep his heart soft. Don't let success turn him into someone he was never meant to be. And if I'm part of the problem, show me. Give me wisdom, and give him ears to hear You, even if it's not through me." When she opened her eyes, the TV light flickered down the hall. Luke laughed at something she couldn't hear, and she wondered how much longer that laughter would sound like the man she'd fallen in love with.

They lived in a town that looked like it had been ripped straight from the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. Better than whose? Better than yours. Identical cul-de-sacs were lined with identical white condos. Lawns trimmed with military precision. Flower beds overflowing with beautiful flowers, never a weed to be seen. Neighbors smiled just enough-but watched just a little too closely. Everyone either worked at MPIC or was married to someone who did. Even a quick trip to the mailbox felt like a runway walk-appearance mattered, because someone was always watching.

The community had been crafted in collaboration with one of MPIC's trophy developers, Pergamum, a firm that specialized in grandeur without restraint. Nothing was understated. Crown molding soared like it was competing for attention, cabinets shimmered with showroom gloss, and every archway and accent wall seemed designed more for press releases than people. It was flawless. Painfully so. They called it The Villas, as if the right name could quiet the dull ache in Lois's chest-an ache that no granite countertop or tray ceiling could soothe.

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Lois had no real friends here. She tried. She'd been invited to a women's Bible study, hosted in one of the immaculate living rooms on Honeysuckle Lane. But it felt more like a fashion show than a Bible study.

"We're all Proverbs 31 wives here," one of the women had said, laughing as she stirred her herbal tea and adjusted her gold bracelet.

"We pray hard and power walk harder," another joked, blotting her lipstick with a monogrammed napkin.

No one opened a Bible. They opened Southern Living. They talked about the latest diet fads, morning shows, and matching monogrammed beach bags. Not a word about Scripture. Or struggle. Or truth. Lois had sat there, smiling politely, folding her hands in her lap, feeling more alien than ever. By the end of the night, she wasn't sure if it had been a Bible study or a recruitment pitch for a pageant. Everything about this life felt wrong. The image, the pace, the pressure. Even the way Luke came home-worn thin, yet wired, full of stories that made her uneasy.

She had dreamed of a first year of marriage filled with small beginnings, grocery runs, date nights, Blockbuster rentals, hand-me-down furniture, and late-night conversations. Instead, her life was filled with cocktail parties, corporate polish, and a husband who sometimes felt  more like a polished persona than the man she married.

The networking parties were the worst. Luke thrived in those rooms- flashing his grin, dropping names, working the crowd like he was born for it. Lois, on the other hand, felt like a prop in heels. Out of place. Overdressed. Under-interested.

If Luke wanted to chase that version of success, fine. But she wished he'd stop dragging her into the spotlight with him. Yet time and again, she found herself smiling through the discomfort, playing the role while silently wondering how much of herself was getting lost in the act.

She didn't know what to pray for anymore. Should she ask God to bless the Florida opportunity Luke wanted so badly? Or should she pray that he'd want something different entirely? Worse still, she wondered if she was losing her ability to influence him at all.

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