Chapter 13 - Blair
I don’t know what it is about being comfortable that feels suspiciously like a trap.
Things can’t really be this good, can they?
Sitting on the velvet chaise in Gabriel’s obnoxiously huge library, wrapped in a cashmere throw worth a month of rent in my old life, safety should be the overwhelming emotion.
Fire crackles in the fireplace, warding off the December chill rolling off the mountains.
The Christmas tree we decorated twinkles in the corner of the living room, visible through the open archway.
But safety makes my skin itch.
Two weeks have passed since Gabriel moved me in. Two weeks of waking up in his bed, eating his food, fucking him every chance we get, and letting his security team track every move. Two weeks of being… kept.
The word leaves a bitter coating on my tongue.
My mom loved being kept. She treated men like life rafts, clinging to them until they deflated, then swimming desperately to the next one.
She’d mold herself into whatever shape they wanted—the doting housewife, the party girl, the silent shadow.
She disappeared into them until nothing was left of her but a reflection of their ego.
When they left—because they always left—she shattered.
Over and over and over again.
Now she’s missing more than a few pieces.
I pull the throw tighter around my shoulders as snow falls outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I promised myself I’d never be her. My life was built on the foundation of never needing anyone. College was a struggle but I did it. My PR firm was built from scratch, and paying my own bills was a badge of honor.
Now, Ryder has burned that business to the ground, and Gabriel pays the bills.
"Why is adulting so hard," I whine into the empty room. It, of course, doesn’t answer.
The blanket lands in a heap on the floor as I stand up. Silence in this ginormous place usually feels oppressive, but today noise will fill it. I’m not my mom. I’m not a pet to be fed and fucked and left on a shelf.
Marching to the kitchen, I grab a fresh cup of coffee and set up a command center at the island. My laptop’s open, my phone’s out, and I’ve got a notebook and my favorite pen ready.
My bank account is still a crime scene, but my contact list might have some life left in it.
"Time to rise from the dead," I mutter, scrolling through the names.
Voicemail picks up the first three calls. The fourth, a florist I’ve worked with for years, answers but her tone is frosty. Ryder’s smear campaign did its job well. She mumbles something about "risks" before hanging up.
It doesn't stop me. The next number is already dialing.
Rejection is just a number. It indicates who believes the gossip and who cares about results. Call enough people and eventually someone has to say yes.
Right?
An hour later, when I’m starting to question whether I should give in to the failure and my newfound determination has almost run out, I hit pay dirt.
"Blair?" The voice belongs to Sarah Jenkins, the director of a small non-profit in Mulberry. We did a fundraiser together two years ago on a shoestring budget. "I heard you were out of commission."
"You heard wrong," I say, keeping my voice bright and steady. "I’m restructuring, but still very much here and in business. I heard you’re planning a holiday gala for the shelter and might need someone to get the word out."
"We are," Sarah sighs. "But our coordinator just quit. And honestly, with the rumors…"
"The rumors are nothing but lies told by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, unfortunately," I cut in. "I would never bring my personal life into this, but he’s left me no choice but to do damage control. You know my work, Sarah. You know I delivered on that fundraiser last year."
Silence stretches on the line.
"I can't pay your usual rate," she admits.
"Rates don't matter right now. The work does. I’ll do it for cost plus ten percent."
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious. Send me your goals for this. I’ll have a proposal for the campaign to you by tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Sarah says, the relief audible. "Okay, let's do it. Welcome back, Blair."
Disconnecting the call triggers an adrenaline spike. It’s not a million-dollar deal at the country club. It’s a charity dinner in a gymnasium. But it’s mine. I got it. I fought for it.
Logistics consume the next four hours. Calls go out. Negotiations happen. A mood board comes together, turning a gym into a winter wonderland and then the social media campaign to get eyes on it with the same theme.
My focus is so absolute that the garage door opening doesn't register.
The presence of another person only becomes obvious when a large, warm hand settles on the back of my neck.
"You look busy."
I jump, spinning on the barstool.
Gabriel stands there, looming over me. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the thick cords of muscle in his forearms. I wipe a little drool from the corner of my mouth as he smirks at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my head as I eye fuck him.
Fatigue lines his face, but his eyes are sharp, taking in every detail that is me.
"I am," I say, turning back to the screen but unable to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. "I got a client."
Gabriel moves closer, crowding me in that way he has—like gravity shifting. He steps between my spread knees, his thighs brushing against mine, trapping me against the marble counter.
"Tell me," he commands.
"It’s the Mulberry Women’s Shelter," I say, breathless at the proximity. "Their holiday gala. They’ve got a small budget, but make a big impact. Or they would if they can get the word out to potential donors. I’m doing it for almost nothing, but it gets my name back out there attached to something positive. It proves I’m not 'unstable.'"
He studies the screen, then looks down at me. There’s no mockery in his gaze. No condescension. Just a slow, simmering burn that makes my core clench.
"You fought for yourself. For what you want," he observes.
"I had to. Ryder poisoned the well with the high-end clients. Rebuilding from the ground up is the only option."
"Good." His thumb brushes the sensitive skin behind my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine as he stares at me with something like pride burning beside the lust in his eyes.
"Ryder underestimated you. He thought you were delicate.
He didn't realize what you really are. How strong you really are. "
The compliment settles in my chest, starting to fill in the cracks left there over my lifetime.
"I’m not disappearing, Gabriel," I tell him, meeting his gaze. "I’m not going to be just… here. Waiting for you."
"I never asked you to," he says, his voice dropping an octave.
He reaches for a leather portfolio he placed on the counter when he walked in. He slides it across the marble.
"Speaking of which," he says, his tone shifting to something more businesslike, though he doesn't step back. "My legal team sent these over. Since you’re living here, we need to handle the administrative side of things."
I eye the folder. "Administrative side?"
"Insurance, mostly," he says, flipping it open. "I’m adding you to the household policy. It covers your belongings, liability, medical if anything happens on the grounds. Plus security clearance. Jaxon needs your signature to fully integrate you into the access system so you’re not tripping alarms every time you open a window. "
He hands me a pen. A heavy, black Montblanc that’s warm from his pocket.
"Sign at the tabs," he says.
The stack looks thick. Dense text, legal jargon that makes my eyes cross, fills the pages.
Indemnification… liability waiver… property access rights…
"Do I need a lawyer to read this?" I ask, half-joking.
Gabriel doesn't flinch. He walks over and gets himself a glass of water, taking a sip and watching me over the rim. "You can if you want. But it’s standard boilerplate. It just says you live here, you’re covered by my insurance, and you have authorized access to the estate.
It protects both of us, but you more than me. "
He sets the glass down and moves into my space again. Gabriel leans in, one hand bracing on the counter next to the paperwork, the other resting on my hip. His thumb digs into the soft flesh there, distracting me.
"I protect what’s mine. Sign the goddamn papers."
His face is open, earnest in a way Gabriel Hollis rarely is. He’s taking care of me. Making sure I’m safe, that my beat-up car and few possessions are covered, that the security system recognizes me as a resident, not an intruder.
It’s the opposite of everything Ryder’s ever done.
"Okay," I say.
I start signing.
Blair Ashby. Flip. Blair Ashby. Flip.
Page after page. Some of the headers are vague—Power of Attorney for Property Management, Vital Records Authorization.
"What's this one?" I ask, pausing at a document that looks slightly different.
Gabriel leans closer, his chest pressing against my shoulder.
His breath is hot against my ear. "That allows my team to handle emergencies if I’m not here.
If the house catches fire or the security system fails, you have the authority to act on my behalf.
It declares us a singular household unit for legal purposes. "
Singular household unit.
What a weird way to phrase it but then again, I don’t speak legalese.
His lips graze my temple. "It’s just a formality, little bird."
The pen scratches across the line as I sign the last page and set it down.
Gabriel picks up the folder immediately. He closes it, tapping the edge against the marble counter to straighten the pages.
A look crosses his face. It’s fleeting, gone before I can truly figure out what it is, but it looks like… victory. Not the satisfying kind he had when we left the fight club. This is darker. Smug. Like the cat who just swallowed the canary whole.
"All done?" I ask, the prickle on my neck returning.
"All done," he says. "My attorney will handle the rest."
He sets the folder aside, dismissing it completely. His full attention turns back to me, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals the air from the room.
"Now," he says. "About your business."
"What about it?"
"I listened to you on the phone earlier. You’re good at the spin. You took a negative—Ryder’s rumors—and turned it into a selling point about a pivot in your business."
"Yeah, that’s my expert level survival skills," I say with a little laugh.
"It’s more than that. You’re good at narrative control." Gabriel moves fully into my space again. He grips my chin, tilting my face up. "I have associates. People in my circle who have problems with their image."
"You mean the Savage Society," I say.
His lips quirk. "I mean businessmen who operate in complex environments. They need events. Charities. Galas. But more importantly, they need someone who can manage the optics. Someone who can make the ugly look pretty and upstanding."
Staring at him, I try to process the offer. "You want me to do PR for criminals?"
"I want you to do crisis management for powerful men," he corrects. "Men who pay in cash and value discretion above all else. They don't care about Ryder’s rumors. They care about loyalty and expertise. And they trust me."
He runs a hand down my arm, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
"If I vouch for you, you’re in. You’ll make more on one contract with them than you would on ten social media influencers from the country club."
I look at my mood board. The holiday gala for the shelter. It’s good work. Honest work.
But forty thousand dollars is gone. My reputation in the sunlight world is in tatters.
And Gabriel is offering a kingdom in the shadows.
"What kind of work?" I ask.
"Think of it like laundering reputations," he says bluntly.
"Cole Callahan needs a charity front to smooth over some zoning issues in Mulberry.
Romeo needs a scholarship fund established to get the city council off his back about the warehouse district.
They need a face that looks like sunshine to hide the storm. "
His grip on my chin tightens slightly.
"You’re perfect for it. You know what it’s like to be looked down on. You know what it’s like to have to smile when you want to scream. You can sell them to the world."
It’s a deal with the devil. I know it. I’m agreeing to be the mask for monsters.
But looking at Gabriel—this man who carries my sins, who insures my life, who destroys my enemies—I realize something terrifying.
Being in the light doesn't appeal to me anymore. The light burned me.
"I’ll do it," I say. "I’ll help them."
Gabriel smiles. It’s genuine, warm, and utterly terrifying.
"That's my girl."
He leans down and kisses me, and I get lost in him until I’m forced to come up for air.
"Dinner," he murmurs against my lips. "Then we celebrate. You have a new client list. And we have a lot to toast to. With sparkling cider of course." He grins and it’s so uncharacteristic, I’m stunned silent for a second.
God, he’s so beautiful.
He pulls back and picks up the folder of signed documents. "I'll just put this in the safe," he says.
I watch him walk toward his office.
The paperwork is signed. My business is pivoting. My life is being rebuilt brick by brick.
But watching him disappear into the hallway, I think this revenge plan of mine has backfired on me because now it’s about so much more.