Chapter 11
Asher
Dawn stains the resort in grayscale: mist on the ornamental pond, long knife-shadows under topiary cedars, dew glittering on mosaic tiles.
Perfect hour for a clandestine call—most guests are still comatose, the staff change-over is just starting, and cameras frame nothing but rabbits and sprinklers.
I ghost down the gravel service path, counting blind spots, until I’m behind a lattice of climbing jasmine that screens the garden from the breakfast terrace.
Phone out. One bar of signal is enough. Dean’s number sits at the top of my priority list—tap, lift, breathe. Two rings.
“Hawke,” he answers, clipped, as if he hasn’t just been yanked out of REM sleep.
“Need a deeper dive,” I murmur, eyes sweeping the dormant rose beds. “On Wade Sinclair.”
Dean’s keyboard comes alive through the earpiece. “I’ve skimmed the public dossier—prep-school valedictorian, Ivy MBA, string of board seats he never earned. How deep and how dirty?”
“As far as the shovel goes. He’s circling Charlotte like a vulture and flexing leverage over her father’s company—threats to burn it down if she won’t sign on the marital dotted line.”
Low whistle. “Hostile takeover via altar. Nice. You have direct statements?”
“Eyewitness and audio in my head,” I reply, pivoting to keep sightline on both garden gates. “He waited until she was alone, then dropped the ultimatum like it was a fucking stock tip. Body language predatory, pulse elevated, pupils blown—guy’s desperate. Feels cartel-level desperate.”
Dean’s typing intensifies. “I’ll drill into offshore shells, private-equity dark corners. Let’s see who’s bankrolling him. Might sting.”
“Sting him,” I correct. “I want pressure points mapped before dinner service.”
“Copy.” He pauses, tone softening. “How’s your asset?”
Image flashes: Charlotte asleep upstairs, hair fanned across linen, worry lines smoothed for once. Asset, yes—and something more complicated. “Holding,” I say. “But Sinclair’s on a countdown. I intend to cut the wire before it reaches zero.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, his mother,” I grind out, pacing a slow perimeter around the rose pergola. Dew beads on my boots; the hedgerow hides me from any early-riser spies. “Last night she tried to spring a pop-up wedding on us. Same weekend, all guests conveniently present. Classic entrapment drill.”
Dean snorts in my ear. “Pressure cooker. See who cracks.”
“Exactly,” I confirm, stopping where the stone path angles toward the service lane. From here I can monitor both hotel wings—habit. “Nancy’s reading micro-expressions, Wade’s reading opportunities. We flinch once, they’ll pounce.”
“You think they smell a ruse?”
“Can’t confirm,” I admit, scanning the upper balconies for silhouettes. “But assumption of compromise keeps us alive. If Wade’s closet has skeletons, I need their dental records.”
Dean’s keyboard chatter ramps up. “What flavor of dirt you want first—financial crimes, hidden addictions, ex-girlfriends with restraining orders?”
“All of the above. Bankruptcies, sealed settlements, offshore ‘philanthropy.’ Anything that tips the board in our favor.”
“Roger. I’ll crack the shell corps, see who’s laundering what. But you’ll need buffering time.”
“I’ll maintain the act.” I roll my shoulders, easing tension, then rake fingers through hair still damp from the dawn air. “Proximity to Charlotte, keep baseline calm. If Nana Peg or Wade escalates, I meet force with narrative.”
Dean goes quiet long enough that the lake birds fill the channel. Then: “Your improvisation score’s high, Hawke. Trust that. But elevate perimeter posture. Desperate men pivot ugly.”
My jaw sets. “Understood.”
He exhales, tone shifting from analyst to something more personal. “Anything else on your mind?”
I hesitate—fraction of a beat that’s too long. “What’s your play if you were running point?”
“Easy,” he deadpans. “Run like hell.”
A reluctant laugh punches out of me, tension-diffuser. “Copy that, war poet.”
Serious again, he says, “Stay sharp—don’t let feelings clutter the sight picture.”
The word detonates. “Feelings?”
“Don’t play coy. You don’t call me pre-sunrise unless you’re orbiting.”
“She’s a client,” I state, but the words lack ballast.
“Client and catalyst,” Dean counters. “Keep your head above the chemical haze. Mission first.”
“My head’s exactly where it needs to be.” Steadier this time.
“Good.” He closes with standard caution: “Send location pings every two hours. I’ll feed intel as it surfaces. Watch your six, Hawke.”
“Roger. Out.” I end the call, slide the phone into my jacket, and draw one long, controlled inhale. Lavender from the hedge mixes with fresh-cut grass—calming if I let it.
Mission first. Protect Charlotte, neutralize Wade, dismantle Nancy’s theater.
Footsteps whisper on flagstones ahead. Charlotte appears on the terrace apron, barefoot, mug of coffee cupped in both hands, sunrise washing copper through her hair.
She tilts her head to watch a pair of swallows dive above the lake—unaware of the crosshairs Wade’s aiming at her future.
The sight knocks the breath strategy from my lungs for a half-second.
Refocus. Scan: no shadows behind her, no reflective glare of optics in upper windows. Clear. I start toward her, boots silent on damp grass, mind already drafting contingency lines while something softer—something dangerous—spreads beneath the tactical grid.
Yeah. This assignment just moved from complex to personal. And personal is always the harder battlefield.
Breakfast debrief complete, I hover near the resort’s coffee bar—espresso, vantage on both exits—while Charlotte nurses a cappuccino. Her posture finally loosening when a staffer in resort pastels bounces up, clipboard at the ready.
“Good morning!” she chirps. “We have a small group heading out for a horseback ride in twenty minutes. Interested?”
I don’t like it. I can’t protect Charlotte out in the open—I’m formulating a polite decline—when Melanie materializes like fireworks. “You have to go, Char! Picture it—sunlit hills, your handsome fiancé, saddle-selfies. Pure romance.”
Charlotte’s smile could ignite a sunrise in the darkest safe-house. She wants this. Decision window shrinking. I take control.
“Sounds great,” I say, tone light but final. I offer Charlotte a grin that’s promising. “What do you say, sweetheart?”
Her smile grows even wider, “Yes.”
I’m already coming up with rules and parameters to keep Charlotte safe, before the social director has even written our names down.
Twenty-three minutes later I’m tightening the cinch on a bay gelding named Titan while Charlotte sizes up her mount—Prancer, chestnut, placid eyes. She looks lethal in borrowed riding gear: fitted denim, tailored jacket, low-heeled boots. File under: distracting factors.
“Prancer?” she scoffs, reading the bridle tag. “What is this, a Christmas parade?”
“Could be worse,” I note, adjusting her stirrup length. “Comet’s busy, and Vixen’s wild.”
That earns a reluctant half-smile.
Trail guide signals we’re ready. I position Charlotte behind the lead wrangler, Melanie ahead, myself rear-guard—best sweep for threats. Unlikely out here, but habits don’t die.
We set off. Sunlight knifes through the pines, and the air carries grass and distant salt from the inlet.
Birds provide acoustic cover; hooves rhythm steady.
For ten minutes it’s textbook serenity. Charlotte relaxes into the gait, shoulders losing tension, voice drifting forward to Melanie in quiet laughter.
I run perimeter assessments… terrain rolling, low visibility dips, two switchbacks that could funnel us. Nothing triggers alarms. Still, I keep one hand loose on the reins, the other near the saddle horn where a compact med kit sits strapped.
My gaze returns to Charlotte, her hair lifting in the breeze, posture balanced and fearless. Charlotte Lane doesn’t surrender to staging or circumstance. It’s… dangerously compelling. I redirect my focus to the trail, but the admiration file remains open.
And then it happens.
Prancer’s ears twitch, and he snorts, his whole body tensing. I see it before Charlotte does—the snake on the trail. It’s enough to spook the horse, and suddenly, Prancer rears back, letting out a loud whinny.
“Whoa!” Charlotte yelps, grabbing at the reins, but Prancer’s already bolting down the trail.
“Charlotte!” I shout, spurring my horse into action. “Hold on!”
The group scatters, voices shouting in alarm as I take off after her. My horse surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt, but Prancer is fast, his panic driving him forward at a breakneck pace.
Charlotte clings to the saddle, her knuckles white, her face a mix of fear and determination. “Asher!”
“Just hang on!” I call back, urging my horse to close the gap. The trail narrows, and branches whip past my face, but I keep my focus on her. Every instinct I’ve honed in the military and on the job kicks in, calculating angles, timing, and the fastest way to stop this before she gets hurt.
Finally, I get close enough to reach her. “Charlotte, loosen the reins a little! Don’t pull too tight!”
“I’m trying!” she cries, her voice shaky but steady enough to show she’s listening.
“Good,” I say, positioning my horse beside hers. “Now, on my count, I’m going to grab the bridle and slow him down. Just keep holding on.”
She nods, her jaw set with determination.
“All right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Three... two... one!”
I reach out, grabbing Prancer’s bridle and pulling gently but firmly. The horse resists at first, his eyes wide and wild, but I keep my grip steady, murmuring soothing words to calm him. Slowly, he begins to slow, his frantic gallop easing into a trot, and finally, a stop.
Charlotte lets out a shaky breath, her hands still gripping the reins. I slide off my horse and move to her side, placing a steadying hand on her arm.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice low and calm.
She nods, but her eyes are wide, and I can see her hands trembling. “I... I think so.”
“Here,” I say, lifting her gently out of the saddle. Her legs wobble as they hit the ground, and I catch her, one arm around her waist to keep her steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
She leans against me for a moment, her breathing uneven, and I can feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest. “That was terrifying,” she whispers.
I hold her closer, and everything clicks into place. This is where she’s meant to be. With me. Safe in my arms.
“You handled it like a champ,” I say, giving her a small smile. “I’ve seen seasoned riders lose it in situations like that.”
She looks up at me, her expression softening. “Thanks, Asher . You... you were amazing.”
My pulse quickens at the way she says it, the way her eyes linger on mine. For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us, standing in the middle of the trail, her body warm against mine.
But then the rest of the group catches up, their voices breaking the spell. Melanie is the first to reach us, dismounting and rushing over. “Charlotte! Are you okay? What happened?”
Charlotte pulls away from me slightly, though I keep a steadying hand on her arm. “I’m fine,” she says, her voice stronger now. “Prancer got spooked, but Asher saved me.”
Melanie’s gaze flicks to me, her expression full of something like gratitude and curiosity. “Well, I’ll say it again—now I really see why you’re marrying him.”
Charlotte groans, rolling her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s just get back to the lodge.”
As we make our way back, I stay close to her side, my senses still on high alert. The adrenaline’s fading, but the memory of her clinging to that saddle is burned into my brain. She’s strong, but I can’t shake the thought of what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been there.
One thing’s for sure—this fake engagement is turning out to be a lot more dangerous than I signed up for. And not just because of runaway horses.