2. King Knows Best
King Knows Best
Asher
We’re silent as we walk the snowy path toward the cabins, the soft falling of snow the only sound. The afternoon sun is hidden behind the gray clouds, and despite the fact that we have a few more hours of sunlight, it feels like dusk already.
I hate it. I hate this. I’ve never been one to relax while on holiday, but a working holiday? I’d much rather just be at my desk where I have everything all set up for maximum efficiency. And I already know this week is going to test my limits… in more ways than one.
Especially now that King is here.
I didn’t expect to see him—didn’t know he’d even be on the guest list. And I definitely didn’t think I’d be sharing a damn suite with the man who’s made it his mission to upend everything I’ve built. And yet… here we are.
The weight of my duffel bag is already digging into my shoulder, and in my other hand is a terrifyingly thick welcome packet titled Wellness & Surrender: Reclaiming Your Presence. Just reading it makes my stomach turn.
King walks beside me like we’re on some kind of joint mission. Relaxed, hands in his pockets, like this is any other offsite. Not a total PR-disaster-in-the-making with fake dating, shared accommodations, and a history between us that feels more like a pressure cooker than anything else.
“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter, keeping my voice low, even though we’re alone.
He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t hear you object.”
“I was caught off guard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For salvaging your access to the most exclusive couples retreat in the country.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Right. Because you’re so altruistic.”
He gives a small shrug. “Let’s just say it was mutually beneficial.”
“Sure. Because nothing screams credibility like being fake-partnered with a guy who stole one of my biggest clients.”
King’s expression doesn’t shift, but I catch the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.
“I didn’t steal Trent,” he says evenly. “He left.”
I glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Right. On his own. Total coincidence he ended up on your roster two weeks later.”
He stops walking for half a beat. “And? Do you want me to say I regret it?”
I keep walking. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
We fall into silence again. The cabin is just ahead—dark wood, glass windows, and way too picturesque. It’s the kind of place people come to reinvent themselves or implode quietly.
Pretty sure I’ll be the latter.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, pausing at the steps, “this fake couple thing? It’s a temporary arrangement. No kissing or touching or whatever.”
He nods. “Naturally.”
“I’m straight,” I add, though I don’t know why I’m saying it out loud.
“Mmmhmm.”
“And I’m only here because I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. I’m not about to let your little surprise appearance screw that up.”
King’s lips twitch into something resembling a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door creaks open and the air inside is warm, pine-scented, and too still.
One bed. Of fucking course. A single queen-sized bed in the center of the room, covered in expensive-looking flannel sheets and too many throw pillows.
I let out a quiet breath. This is going to be my own personal version of hell.
King steps past me, setting his bag down neatly by the closet. He glances back once.
“Relax, Asher. You look like you’re about to keel over. Guys your age can’t be too careful.”
What the ? —
I don’t reply. Don’t give him the opportunity to make another dig.
I close the door behind us and let the silence settle.
The suite is beautiful, in a curated sort of way—all reclaimed wood, cozy fixtures, and oversized windows overlooking a forest so picturesque it looks fake.
There’s a fireplace already laid with wood, a bottle of something expensive waiting on the counter, and one bed.
One.
Bed.
I don’t know why I can’t get over that fact, and I inwardly groan when I realize that one of us—probably me—will be sleeping on the hard floors all week.
King unzips his duffel bag and begins unpacking.
I hover near the door, arms crossed, bags at my feet. “You don’t seem concerned about this situation at all.”
He doesn’t look up. “Because I’m not.”
Hmm. Where is his date for the retreat? Why does this all feel predetermined, somehow?
“That’s suspicious. It’s almost like you planned this. Like you’re using this retreat to get under my skin even more.”
“If I had, we’d have separate beds. I’m not a sadist.”
“Debatable.”
“Trust me. Not into sadism. Too pleasure-focused to fuck with pain.” He gives me the ghost of a smile, then carefully places a folded black sweater into a drawer.
It’s almost unsettling how normal he is in this space, like he belongs anywhere he chooses to stand.
Like nothing sticks to him, not even scandal.
“My date got caught in the storm. He’s sad to be missing it. ”
He.
I shrug off that factoid and roll my shoulders.
“You don’t strike me as the retreat type,” I say, stepping farther in, eyeing the room. “Bit earthy for your tastes, no? In fact, do you even own clothing that isn’t black?”
He ignores my barb. “I’m here to make deals. Just like you,” he replies smoothly. “People make emotional decisions when they’re vulnerable.”
“So this is a hunt?”
He finally meets my eyes. “Isn’t it always?”
I open my mouth, close it, then scrub a hand down my face. My skin feels too tight. I haven’t had enough coffee or sleep to manage this.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why’d you really volunteer to couple up with me?”
He tilts his head, just slightly. “Because you looked desperate, and I needed an in. It’s mutually beneficial.”
I stare at him. That half-truth again, delivered like a compliment. There’s more beneath it—I can feel it.
I just don’t know what it is yet.
I grab the welcome packet off the bed and flip to the schedule, skimming.
THURSDAY AM - CHECK IN
THURSDAY 3:30 PM - EMOTIONAL SURRENDER WORKSHOP
I close the booklet with a snap. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is an emotional surrender workshop?”
King raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little trust exercise? Not the Asher Harrison,” he adds in mock surprise.
“I’m afraid of a group circle jerk where someone inevitably cries about their dog.”
He chuckles under his breath, then moves to the window. “You know, if you weren’t so determined to dislike me, you might enjoy this.”
“If you weren’t so determined to play the long game, I might believe that. But I don’t trust you. I don’t trust this ,” I add, gesturing between us.
He turns, rests a shoulder against the bathroom doorframe, casual and contained. “You think this is part of some game? Why?”
“Because it is.”
His gaze sharpens. “Then you should be careful, Asher. Because that means you’re playing too.”
I look away first. Not because I’m intimidated. But because something about his voice—the way it dips, dangerously low and too close—feels like a thread I don’t want to pull.
I toss the packet onto the bed. “We’re not a couple. We just have to give off the illusion that we are.”
“And look convincing doing it.”
I scoff. “We won’t.”
He smiles. “Not with that attitude.”
I should say something cutting. I should grab my laptop and pretend this is a networking opportunity instead of whatever the hell it’s becoming. But instead, I just stand there, wondering if this was a mistake I haven’t fully calculated yet.
And worse, if it’s already too late to undo it.
There’s a moment after King turns away, back to his perfectly arranged side of the suite, where I catch myself staring.
Not admiring—just cataloging. The way he moves like he owns the air.
That calm, calculated stillness of his that reads like he’s always five minutes ahead of everyone else.
He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.
And maybe that’s what gets under my skin the most.
It’s not just the client he poached or the bullshit charm. It’s how easy he makes it all look. Like effort is beneath him. Like success just happens around him because he exists.
I built Strategic Partnerships from the ground up. West Coast office. Then New York. I bled for this company. Traded comfort for ambition. Spent twenty years making myself indispensable. And then King blew that all out of the water by poaching my clients—most especially Trent Marchand.
I sit on the edge of the bed and grab one of the monogrammed water bottles from the side table, twisting the cap too hard. It cracks, and the sound is too loud in the quiet room.
“Still wound tight?” he says without looking.
I glare at the back of his head. “You know what? I don’t get you. People like you don’t usually need retreats, because you already have everything you’ve ever wanted. Including my biggest client.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You’re right. Maybe I don’t need it. Or… maybe I wanted to see who else would show up, and who’d show their hand.”
My jaw tightens. “So it is a game.”
His eyes find mine. “Of course it is.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “Yeah. I guess that explains how you ended up with Trent.”
He doesn’t deny it this time. “He was already considering leaving. I just gave him the right reason.”
“I spent eight years building that account.”
King nods once, as if to acknowledge it. “Then you should know better than anyone. Loyalty isn’t forever.”
I stand and cross to the window, needing distance. The forest view is still too perfect. Everything about this is… wrong.
“So, what, you came here to poach more accounts? Collect more weaknesses?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is its own answer.
Behind me, I hear him move, the sound of fabric brushing, the subtle creak of floorboards.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice closer now, “for someone who insists on hating me, you’re asking me a lot of interesting questions. Sounds like someone’s been paying attention to his competition.”