12. King of Spades
King of Spades
King
I thought Asher’s realization would be dramatic. Something cinematic—storming off into the woods, voice raised, asking me if I was ever going to tell him that I’m Ambrose the intern from ten years ago.
Instead, he’s laughing with Jacques a few feet away over brunch like nothing happened.
I sip my espresso, doing a terrible job pretending not to watch him.
Every few seconds, my eyes drift. I watch the way his eyes crinkle whenever he smiles. The way one hand is resting in his pocket casually. If I didn’t know how to read him well, I’d say he’s relaxed—but the crease between his brows and the light tapping of his foot on the ground give him away.
He may give off the illusion of being at ease, but I know the knowledge of what we did ten years ago is eating at him slowly.
Good.
I try to take in the rest of the lodge—the chatter, the snow-glazed windows, the soft clink of silverware—but it’s no use.
He doesn’t look at me once.
What did I expect?
For him to pick up where we left off? For him to make a scene?
That’s not Asher’s style.
No, he’s silently stewing. And when I least expect it, he’s going to explode.
“You know,” a low voice murmurs beside me, “you haven’t asked me for a meeting yet.”
I turn to see Walter, carrying what looks like an entire pint of herbal tea in a matte-black mug that probably costs more than my watch.
I offer a smooth smile. “Were you expecting me to?”
Walter tilts his head, gaze lingering. If I didn’t know how loyal he was to Jacques, his husband of twenty years, I’d say he was flirting with me.
“I figured you were here to acquire me.”
I don’t answer.
He follows my eyes over to Asher.
“If it helps your decision-making process,” he says, “I’d probably say yes.”
“To a meeting?” I ask, voice easy.
“Both,” Walter replies, lips quirking. “I meant what I said yesterday. Your reputation precedes you.”
I nod, fingertips brushing my chest reflexively. “That’s good to know.”
Walter leans a bit closer. “Of course, that is… if your partner doesn’t scoop me up first.”
My smile doesn’t falter. “Healthy competition, wouldn’t you say?”
He laughs, loud and open, and his hand lands on my shoulder. “Think about it. It might be fun.”
He walks off. The back of my neck prickles, and the air feels colder all of a sudden.
Asher.
His presence slices clean behind me like a blade.
My skin pebbles before he even speaks. When I turn around, his expression is thunderous.
Stormy eyes with something wild beneath the surface.
His eyes flick from Walter’s retreating back to my face like he is trying to measure the amount of betrayal.
I raise an eyebrow. “Hello.”
When he responds a few seconds later, his voice is low and dangerous. “Are you trying to sign him?”
“Walter?”
“No, Santa Claus.” His nostrils flare. “Don’t play dumb.”
I take a slow sip of espresso. “We had a conversation. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” he hisses. “I heard him. He practically offered himself on a silver fucking platter.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Since when do you care who offers themselves to me?”
His eyes flash. “I don’t.”
Tilting my head, I study the way he shifts his weight away from me.
“You seem angry, and I’m assuming it’s because you either wanted to sign Walter, or you’re jealous I was talking to another man.
” His eyes flash with anger, but he doesn’t say anything.
At this point, I just want him to admit it—and which it is debatable. “So, which is it?”
“Why would I be jealous? What, was he flirting with you, too?”
My lips press together as I try not to smile. “Maybe he was.”
Asher’s hands curl at his sides. “Interesting.”
I’m enjoying this way too much.
He steps into my space like he wants to hit me or kiss me.
I don’t move. “You came here for Walter.”
“And? You already knew that.”
“I suspected. But now you’ve all but confirmed, so thank you for that.”
“You arrogant son of a?—”
“Why not just say it, Asher?” I say, voice calm but sharp.
“You thought I was trying to steal your client again.” He inhales sharply, so I dig the blade in farther.
I want a reaction. “Now that you know who I am, now that you can piece together why I stole Trent, does that change anything?” I ask, my voice a low purr. “Do you get it now?”
“You’re intentionally trying to fuck me over,” he mutters, eyes sparkling with fury as if this is the first time he’s coming to this realization.
“And yet you keep letting me.”
That’s when he shoves me— hard.
My coffee spills. The mug clatters to the ground, shattering. We’re barely two feet from the buffet table, and everyone turns to stare at us.
“Darling, you should really be more careful,” I murmur, speaking a little too loudly.
Grabbing his hand, I mutter an apology to one of the retreat workers who’s already cleaning the mess up as I drag Asher into an empty room off a nearby hallway. The second the door snicks shut, we’re engulfed in near darkness—save for a flickering LED candle.
And a life-size statue of a man I think might be David Hasselhoff.
I don’t have the energy to laugh. Other than the freaky statue, it’s just us—just heat and breath and years of unresolved, bleeding tension. There are no millionaire clients or workers, no one else to diffuse the situation.
He glares at me, chest heaving. “You just can’t help it, can you? You take what you want no matter the consequences. Trent was mine ,” he seethes.
“You really think I’m trying to steal Walter?” I step in, voice low, the distance between us now barely measurable. He doesn’t answer. Just breathes harder, eyes flicking to my mouth and back like he already knows I’ve won. “Or do you just hate the fact that I rile you up like this?” I ask.
Every muscle in his body tightens. “You don’t,” he lies.
I raise my chin, closing the gap. Our chests almost touch. “Then say it.”
“What?”
“Say you don’t want me.”
His lips part, but no words come. Because he can’t say it. Because it wouldn’t be true.
“Say you don’t enjoy wearing this,” I murmur, nearly whispering as my fingers trail along the collar around his neck. “Say you don’t love the idea of me telling you exactly what to do and exactly how to touch yourself, Asher.”
“I’m— I don’t,” he says, the words coming out in a sharp breath.
My fingers press in against the side of his neck, and I can feel his pulse beating frantically—can feel the way his breathing stutters when I squeeze just slightly.
“Liar.”
“What do you want from me?” he asks. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what happened ten years ago.”
Cocking my head, I smile. “Don’t be.”
“But—”
“I don’t want your apology, Asher. I want your surrender.”
“W-what does that mean?”
My smile slowly drops off my face, and for the first time since we both arrived at this retreat without our dates, I allow him to see the anger underneath my collected facade. I allow him to see how that fury calcified in me—how it hardened into something sharp.
How it festered.
Asher swallows, and his nervous energy is evident. “You’re taller now. Bigger. I mean, you must be eating, like, a dozen chicken breasts a day for that kind of muscle gain, even over ten years.”
He laughs—awkward, strained—and tries again. “Your hair’s different too. And the glasses are gone. You worked your way up fast. Doesn’t surprise me. I remember your application. Even at nineteen, you were the brightest intern we’d had in years.”
It’s desperate, the way he clings to small talk. Like he can fix this by narrating over it. If he controls the script, maybe it won’t cut so deep for both of us.
“Was it an eyebrow ring?” he asks finally, almost sheepish, as if my hand isn’t around his throat. “I think you had one, right?”
That does it. My jaw tightens. I look at his mouth. Then his eyes. Then down to his throat.
“It’s cute that you think this is about catching up,” I say. “That you get to make sense of me on your terms.”
For a second, I think he’s going to laugh again—try to deflect, maybe. But then he sees my face, taking in my sharp expression. Something flickers behind his eyes. Confusion?
No.
Fear .
I let the silence stretch, pressing into him like a weight.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“You don’t remember me the way I remember you,” I continue. “You moved on. You forgot.” I let that sink in, pausing for several seconds. “But I built my entire life around remembering.”
He draws in a shaky breath, and I wonder if he realizes how pathetic it sounds. I can feel the way he begins to shake under my touch—out of fear or arousal, I’m not sure.
“I’m not angry, Asher,” I say quietly. “This isn’t about revenge.” Though, in a way, it is. It always has been. But it’s not the kind he thinks. “I just believe in symmetry.”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
My smile is slow. Painless. I let it stretch just long enough to unnerve him before I lean in closer, so close his nose brushes against my cheek.
“You erased me,” I whisper.
He flinches like I slapped him.
Good.
I press closer. My voice stays soft, but it cuts.
“You know what I remember most about that night?” His breathing hitches.
My eyes drop to his mouth—already parted.
He’s putty in my hands, trembling like he’s seconds away from begging me to touch him.
“It wasn’t the kiss, even though it was my first kiss,” I continue.
Something stutters behind his eyes. I’m hurting him.
Good. “It was the look on your face afterward.
Like it cracked something open in you—and you hated what you saw.
“I was nineteen and innocent,” I add. “All I wanted was to be seen. Instead, I learned how to disappear. I questioned whether I should be ashamed of what happened or not, because you certainly were. I second-guessed everything after that.”
His chest hitches. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“You did. And maybe you had your reasons. I’ve had ten years to imagine every one of them.” I tilt my head slightly. “It’s kind of ironic, don’t you think? You need me now. You need this facade to work, because you want to sign Walter.” Asher’s nostrils flare, and he tries to pull away from me.
I grip his throat tighter and press my thigh between his legs so that he can’t move. With my mouth brushing his ear, I keep my voice as sharp as a blade’s edge.
“And now that you’re here—angry, desperate, needing me—I’m going to take what I want.”
He exhales like a man punched in the chest. “Fuck you.”
“I will,” I say, dragging my fingers down his side, just hard enough to make him shiver. “And I’ll make you beg for it.”
He lets out a short, sharp breath, and his fists grip my shirt. “I’d rather die than beg you for sex.”
I smile. “Who said anything about begging for sex?” I murmur. “You’ll beg for me. ”
His eyes go wide, but only for a second. He tries again to twist out of my hold, but my thigh keeps him pinned, the friction between us undeniable. His cock presses against mine through layers of fabric—inconvenient proof he wants this even if he hates it.
I lean back just enough to look him in the eye. “You think I’m doing this for Walter?” I ask, voice low. “If I wanted him, I’d already have him.”
Asher flinches, but recovers fast. “Then why the fuck are you here?”
I tilt my head. “Because you are. Why do you think I paid so much money to be here? It wasn’t to sign Walter. I could’ve done that in my sleep.” My smile widens. “Too bad Brooklyn couldn’t make it.”
A beat passes, heavy and loaded.
Then I let him go, giving him time for my words to sink in.
He doesn’t move.
“I don’t need to fuck you,” I say, straightening my sweater. “Watching you unravel is better.”
His eyes flash. “You think I’d sabotage my own pitch with Walter over this?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “you’re one breath away from either kissing me or killing me. And if I’m right—Walter’s going to see the wreckage on your face long before he signs anything.”
Asher opens his mouth but says nothing. He just stands there, breathing heavily.
Flushed. Furious. Hard .
I remove my hand from his throat, and I swear something close to a whimper settles in his chest. When I take a step back, he nearly follows me.
I have him right where I want him.
Walking to the door, I pull it open. “Better pull it together, Harrison,” I say over my shoulder. Then I pause—just long enough to twist the knife. “Oh, and wipe the drool off your mouth.”
Then I’m gone.