Chapter 3 #2
“The charity gala. For the Foster Children’s Foundation?
I found the invitation in your inbox this morning and went ahead and RSVP’d.
I assumed it was something you intended to attend.
” She continues eating, unaware of the storm gathering inside me.
“If you need a tuxedo pressed, I can ask Franklin to—”
“You…assumed?” I repeat.
Now she stops, finally registering the shift in my tone.
“Yes?” A slight furrow appears between her eyebrows. “The invitation was marked urgent, and the RSVP deadline is tomorrow. I didn’t want you to miss it.”
“You assumed incorrectly.” The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Inside my chest, something dark and ugly unfurls. “I’m not going to the gala.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Asher.” She sets down her fork with careful precision. “You’re right. I should have checked with you first.”
“Yes. You should have.” Each word falls like a chip of ice between us. “That foundation is none of your concern. The gala is none of your concern. You are not to touch anything related to either without my explicit direction. Is that clear?”
A flash of hurt crosses her face, quickly controlled but impossible to miss.
“Perfectly clear.”
“That will be all for now, Ms. Vance.” I turn back to my computer, dismissing her without meeting her eyes. “You can continue your work at your desk.”
She rises without a word, collecting her half-eaten lunch and returning to the corner.
Shame floods through me.
Fuck. She couldn’t have known. Had no way of understanding what that foundation means to me. What the gala represents. The memories it drags up from the darkness where I’ve buried them. Nola couldn’t have known any of that. And I punished her for it anyway.
The realization sits bitter on my tongue, like ashes from a fire I started myself.
Hours later, it’s nearly ten p.m. and I’m standing in front of the security monitors like a fucking stalker, staring at the camera feed from outside Nola’s bedroom door.
The light underneath has been on for hours.
My dinner sits cold and untouched on the desk behind me, Franklin’s silent disapproval evident in the way he removed the tray without comment thirty minutes ago.
I’ve accomplished exactly nothing since she walked out of my office this afternoon.
Nothing except wear a path in the floor with my pacing and count the minutes she’s stayed locked away in her room.
Two hundred and seventy-four minutes, to be exact. Not that I’m counting.
I refresh the feed again, as if something might have changed in the thirty seconds since I last looked.
The hallway remains empty. Her door remains closed.
The thin strip of light beneath it remains constant, mocking me with its presence.
Is she reading? Working? Packing to leave after the way I treated her?
The thought sends a spike of panic through me.
I turn away from the monitors, shoving a hand through my hair.
This is insane.
I’m insane.
She’s my assistant. She’s been here less than forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t matter enough to make me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
But she does.
I move to the windows, staring out at the darkness that swallows the mountains at night.
My reflection stares back—hard eyes, rigid posture, the scar that splits my face like a lightning strike across stone.
The permanent reminder of why I built these walls, why I stay behind them.
Why I don’t do galas or crowds or anything that involves standing in a room full of strangers who can see what was done to me.
“Fuck.” The word escapes on a harsh exhale, fogging the glass. I press my forehead against the cool surface, closing my eyes.
This has to stop. I have to stop.
But all I can think about is Nola. The way she sat at dinner last night in that yellow dress, her chin high like she was doing me a favor by being there.
The way she talked about losing everything—her grandmother, the farm, her home—without a trace of self-pity.
The way she looked at me and didn’t flinch from what she saw.
I need to know why.
Before I finish the thought, I’m moving toward the door. Down the corridor. Along the hallway that leads to the east wing.
The hallway to her room stretches before me, stark and empty under the recessed lighting. Security cameras track my movement, silent witnesses to my weakness. To my surrender to this compulsion I can’t seem to fight.
I pause outside her door.
I could turn around. Could go back to my office, to my lonely routine, to the safe isolation I’ve built for myself. I should turn around.
Instead, I knock.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then I hear soft footsteps approaching the door.
When it opens, all the air rushes out of my lungs.
Nola stands before me in a cotton nightgown, the material worn almost translucent in places. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the light from behind her like a halo.
“Mr. Asher.” Her voice holds surprise but no fear. No anger either, despite how I treated her earlier. “Is everything okay?”
Everything about this moment feels surreal.
Me standing outside her door at night, her in that nightgown, me without any rational explanation for my presence. The air between us seems charged with electricity, with potential energy just waiting for a spark.
No, baby girl, everything is most definitely not okay.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” I snarl.
She blinks at me in confusion. “Should I be?”
“Everyone else is.”
“So?”
I glare at her. “So you’re not. Why?”
Nola studies me for a long moment, her expression open and thoughtful. Finally, she says, “You haven’t given me a reason to be afraid.”
“Sure, I have,” I say, gesturing to the compound around us. “Just look at this place. The security, the isolation, the cameras everywhere.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“It’s not scary,” she says quietly, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s sad.”
Something cracks inside my chest.
I reach for her before I realize I’m going to move, my hands framing her face. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my palms, her eyes widening in surprise but not fear.
Then I’m kissing her.
My mouth claims her with hunger that’s been building since the moment she walked through my door yesterday.
She makes a small sound against my lips, and then she kisses me back, her hands coming up to grip my wrists, not pushing me away but holding me in place.
She tastes like toothpaste and something sweeter beneath, something uniquely her.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the silky strands wrapping around my fingers just as I’ve been imagining since I first saw her.
Her lips part under the pressure of mine, allowing me inside, and I groan at the first touch of her tongue against mine.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I pull away.
“Mr. Asher…I-I…What’s happening?” she whispers, her voice unsteady.
“I don’t know.”
I pull back just enough to see her face.
The flush has spread from her throat down her chest, disappearing beneath the nightgown. I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes.
“But let me tell you what I do know,” I say, my voice dropping to a rough growl.
“You’re going to do your job brilliantly.
You’re going to be the best assistant this company has ever seen.
And when work is done for the day...” I pause, my thumb tracing her lower lip.
“...you’re going to let Daddy take care of you. ”