Chapter 5
Elara
The ballroom was a sea of industry elite—retailers, investors, and, of course, the Esmé Group principals.
The crowd buzzed with rumors, most centered around Esmé’s founder, Vivienne Hale.
She was legendary for being ruthless—a woman who had spent decades carving a path through a male-dominated industry with a blade in her hand and a smile on her pretty face.
Word was, she had groomed her only son to take his place at her side. The next generation was officially taking over, and every shark in the room wanted to see if the son was as lethal as the mother.
“Smile, dear,” Alastair murmured, his voice tight. “Everybody’s watching.”
I executed a flawless smile, the kind that didn’t touch my eyes.
“You don’t need to tell me what to do.”
He stiffened, muttering something I was sure was a vicious insult under his breath. He hated when I asserted autonomy. I stepped out of his space, ignoring him, and scanned the room.
Across the ballroom, his parents flanked his mistress like guard dogs. They were trying to keep her hidden, to avoid questions. Mr. Ashworth blocked anyone who looked too curious, redirecting them with practiced ease.
Alastair suddenly wrapped an arm around my waist. I glanced up—event photographers were approaching. Of course. He was all for show.
A circle of retailers gathered, along with the camera crew, thrilled to be near the “Ashworth couple.” I’d managed to keep us looking like “couple goals,” even with him in Europe for three years.
They asked about the Ashworth Lingerie winter launch. Complimented my dress. Praised the company I had kept running while my husband was “away.”
I nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected.
But my mind wasn’t in the room.
“Mrs. Ashworth!” someone called behind me.
I turned and greeted them. Alastair chimed in when necessary, polished and rehearsed, as if reading from a script I’d written.
A hush suddenly rippled through the ballroom. The night’s host stepped onto the stage, tapping the mic with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. Tonight, we officially welcome the next generation of Esmé leadership.”
Alastair straightened. His parents lifted their heads. Investors leaned forward. The anticipation was thick enough to eat with a spoon.
I took a slow sip of champagne.
“And now,” the host continued, “please welcome the new principal of Esmé Group—”
The side doors opened.
I choked.
I couldn’t breathe. Fight or flight kicked in. It took everything in me not to run.
Julian stepped into the light.
My lungs seized, the oxygen in the room turning to lead.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in a ballroom—I was back in the claustrophobic heat of his bedroom.
Violent flashes of our nights together flooded my vision, his weight on top of me, my legs draped over his shoulders, the way my hand curled around his throat, making him fight for air and release.
He wasn’t the twenty-five-year-old recent grad I thought he was.
He was the heir to a multibillion-dollar empire.
A prince I had treated like a human dildo.
He talked for maybe fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t tell you a word of what he said.
Next thing I knew, he was walking toward us.
Alastair, oblivious to the history unfolding beside him, pushed me forward with a proprietary hand on my lower back.
“Mr. Hale, isn’t it? Alastair Ashworth. And my wife, Elara. We’re excited about the Ashworth–Esmé potential.”
Julian’s eyes found mine—and didn’t leave. They were burning.
He was angrier than he’d been the night I left. The rage radiated off him.
“Alastair,” Julian drawled. “You’re the son. I’ve heard quite a bit about you and your family.”
He didn’t offer his hand. Just glanced at Alastair, then back at me. The tension thickened like syrup.
“Good, then you know we’re serious about being partners,” Alastair said, trying to sound jovial after being insulted, with his fake ass.
“We have an excellent reputation. And my wife here runs a tight ship.”
Julian took a long, slow sip of his champagne.
“I’m afraid I’m not interested in your partnership, Ashworth.”
His tone was neither friendly nor professional.
Alastair froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“No partnership,” Julian repeated, a cruel, satisfied look spreading across his mouth. He was relishing this public execution.
“Your wife… offended me recently. I can’t do business with people who insult or disrespect me.”
His gaze lingered pointedly on my husband’s hand, still resting on my back.
I moved immediately, stepping smoothly out of Alastair’s grasp. My face was a mask of polite confusion.
“Oh, Mr. Hale, are you referring to the fender bender when I was on my way to pick up my husband from the airport?” I asked lightly, amused.
“My driver barely tapped your car. Of course, Ashworth Intimates will cover all damages. Including any psychological distress.”
I cut my eyes to the ceiling as the lie rolled off my tongue.
Julian’s eyes narrowed. He let the silence stretch for a beat, savoring the performance.
“A fender bender, she says,” he murmured to Alastair, that dark shadow of a smile playing on his lips.
Then, to me. “If you apologize properly, Elara, maybe I’ll reconsider the partnership.”
He was baiting me.
I said nothing.
“Go on then. Now’s the time,” he said, his voice low and private—despite being in a room of five hundred people. “Apologize.”
I lifted my chin and met his gaze head-on.
“I truly am sorry.”
“Mmm.” A smirk curled his lips. “No. I don’t think you are.”
He moved in closer, unapologetically invading my space. Alastair had to step back.
Julian ignored him completely.
“That felt,” Julian said softly, eyes locked on mine, “insincere. Mechanical. Cold. Like you treated me that day.”
My pulse betrayed me—throbbing visibly in my neck.
He noticed.
Julian tilted his head, studying me.
“I think,” he murmured, “you’ll need to find a better way to apologize, after the indifference you gave me when I was the wronged party.”
I held my breath. He was too close. My body remembered him too well, and it was starting to react.
Julian leaned back just enough to smile politely for the cameras—an angelic expression masking a wolf.
“Well, it was nice to meet you. When you figure out how to apologize the correct way, contact me.”
He reached out and pulled me into a hug—perfectly acceptable for onlookers. His hand pressed lightly to the small of my back, his mouth near my ear.
“You owe me,” he whispered. “And I always collect. Make that apology good.”
My breath caught. Then he released me—cleanly, smoothly.
Julian Hale walked away, champagne in hand, shoulders relaxed, expression amused.
He was the fucking devil incarnate.
And I had misunderstood everything about him.
I had ignored the power that always simmered under his surface. The danger.
Alastair stared after him, baffled.
“What the fuck was that?” he demanded, rounding on me. “Elara—what the hell just happened?”
I kept my face perfectly blank.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said calmly, even though my heartbeat was twisting itself into knots.
“Something,” Alastair hissed, “is going on—”
“Nothing is going on,” I said, cool as ice. “But if Julian Hale doesn’t want to partner with us because he’s young and petty, we’ll simply have to adjust our projections.”
Alastair frowned, frustrated. “That still doesn’t explain—”
“It explains everything,” I cut him off.
My eyes drifted—involuntarily—toward Julian.
He was watching me. Watching us.
And smiling like he was about to fuck up everything for me—and enjoy doing it.
This was bad.
Without another word, I turned and left.
Nothing in my life had prepared me for what Julian Hale had in store.