Chapter 4
Roxanne
The transfer shouldn’t hurt this much.
Realistically, I knew something had to change after what happened in Asher’s office. Men like Asher Sterling do not lose control gracefully. Especially not with women they already distrust.
Still, when I walked into work that morning and watched him sit behind that massive desk pretending nothing happened between us, something cold settled painfully in my chest.
I wasn’t expecting him to acknowledge the incident or anything special or even offer a chance at a clean discussion to figure out how to handle our attraction for each other, but it was still hard to watch him dismiss me so coldly.
The only thing I’m grateful for is that he at least didn’t fire me. That would’ve destroyed the stable life I’ve finally managed to build this year.
I can’t let Felix return to suffering because I can’t keep the first corporate job I have. I promised Mom and Dad I’d look after him. After all, he’s my only family.
I momentarily think back to how angry I initially was when I learned my parents were expecting another child when I was already fourteen. It was quite shocking going from being an only child to suddenly having a sibling. However, Mom and Dad always wanted another child.
And right now, I can’t help but be grateful to them because I’d be all alone in this world without Felix. So regardless of whatever happens, I need to make sure he’s at least fine. I have to keep this job.
Even if every glance from Asher now feels unbearable, I can endure that much.
The good thing about Asher’s transfer is that Mr. Hudson turns out to be surprisingly pleasant compared to Asher. He’s less terrifying and more human.
He smiles occasionally and says thank you after I hand him documents. Most importantly, his stare doesn’t make me lose my mind.
For a moment, I feel bad for Claire, who now has to deal with Asher.
The executive floor remains exactly the same, though. Which means avoiding Asher is impossible.
I still hear his voice through conference room walls and still pass him in hallways. And I could swear there are times when I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Sometimes I wish he’d stop. Other times, I wish he’d corner me again, kiss me, and make my body sing with pleasure again.
That’s the truly humiliating part.
A full week passes, and I still can’t stop thinking about what happened in his office.
His hands, mouth, and the memory of him saying my name become my obsession.
“Roxanne.”
Oddly, I want to hear him call me that way again.
At first, I assumed his refusal of my nickname was another way of keeping distance between us and making sure things remain formal. Now I’m starting to realize the way he says Roxanne somehow feels far more intimate.
It sounds utterly dangerous in his mouth, which is ridiculous.
I shove the thought away as I organize Mr. Hudson’s schedule on Friday afternoon. The executive floor is quieter than usual. Most of the senior executives have already left for the weekend.
I’m reaching for my coffee when someone approaches my desk.
It's Claire, Asher’s new assistant. Or technically, Mr. Hudson’s old assistant before Asher decided to reshuffle our lives like corporate chess pieces.
Claire offers me a hesitant smile. “Do you have a second?”
“Depends. Is this another emergency meeting request?”
“No.” She lowers her voice slightly. “Actually, I needed help.”
That immediately surprises me.
Claire has worked at Sterling Group longer than I have. So she asking for my help is one thing I never once thought would happen.
I smile. “What kind of help?”
She glances toward Asher’s office and beckons for me to follow her. The movement alone makes tension tighten low in my stomach automatically. I follow her nonetheless.
“I need to buy a gift,” she says as soon as she sits at her desk.
A gift.
Just from hearing that alone, I already know what this means. A bitter little laugh almost escapes me, but I manage to keep it down.
I spent an entire year handling these so-called gifts. It ranges from luxury bracelets to diamond necklaces and designer bags. Oftentimes, meaningless, overly expensive flowers that I spend my time curating as the perfect goodbye presents for Asher’s women.
Asher never kept women long enough to learn meaningful gifts. Most of his flings never lasted more than a few days. And I’ve always been the one to handle the end of these affairs by sending over these gifts.
A sick feeling curls slowly in my stomach.
It’s been only a week. It's been a week since he had his hand between my legs, making me lose my mind in his office. And apparently, he’s already been with another woman long enough to need a breakup gift.
Of course he is.
This is Asher Sterling. A man who rotates women the same way he rotates tailored suits.
What exactly did I expect?
For him to suddenly become emotionally available because we almost had sex once? It's pathetic that I even thought of it.
I force a smile anyway. “What kind of gift?”
“Jewelry, maybe? Mr. Sterling asked for something elegant.”
My chest tightens painfully at the words, but I compose myself quickly. I straighten slightly in my chair and shove every stupid feeling back down where it belongs.
“Okay,” I say smoothly. “What kind of woman?”
Claire relaxes instantly. “That’s the problem. I have no idea.”
I almost laugh.
Neither does Asher most of the time.
“Asher usually prefers classic pieces for women who already have expensive taste.”
The words leave a sour taste in my mouth despite trying not to sound affected. Claire nods quickly while pulling up jewelry options on her tablet.
I shouldn’t be doing this since I’m no longer his assistant, but I help anyway. For a moment, I think of how this is what I needed to snap me out of my crazy thoughts of Asher.
A good reminder that Asher is exactly the kind of man I don’t want to get mixed up with.
Asher Sterling does not do attachment. He does sex, and I’ve never been really good at keeping things purely physical.
That’s probably why I ended up with someone like Tristan. At least Tristan pretended to care. In Asher’s case, he can’t even be bothered with pretending.
“That one,” I say finally, pointing toward a diamond tennis bracelet. “Women usually like timeless pieces more than trendy ones.”
Claire smiles in relief. “Thank you. Seriously.”
Before I can answer, movement catches my attention. Asher exits his office, and instantly, every nerve ending in my body becomes aware of him.
He pauses briefly when he notices me sitting beside Claire. Grey eyes meet mine, and just like that, the entire hallway feels too small.
My breathing grows uneven as I struggle to pretend not to care. One week later, my body still remembers exactly what his mouth felt like against mine and the orgasm he gave me.
A little heartbeat thumps in between my legs. I quickly press my thighs together.
This is totally ridiculous.
Asher’s gaze drifts slowly over me. It's detached enough that nobody would notice the illicit tension brewing beneath them.
I look away first.
“Mr. Sterling,” Claire says quickly, standing. “I was just finalizing the gift.”
The reminder hits sharply again.
Asher’s gaze flicks toward the tablet in her hand before returning briefly to me. Something unreadable moves across his expression.
“Is it prepared?” he asks.
Claire nods immediately. “Yes.”
That’s all it takes for the last ugly piece of hope inside me to finally die.
I stand smoothly, gathering my files before either of them notices how suddenly furious I am. Not just furious, humiliated too because apparently I’m stupid enough to actually care.
I barely make it two steps before Asher speaks again.
“Have it delivered to Allison Pierce.”
My feet stop instantly.
Allison Pierce.
Not some model or another socialite draped over his arm. Alexander’s mother?
Relief hits me so suddenly it’s almost embarrassing. It disturbs me how quickly my chest loosens.
Slowly, I turn back around. Asher is already watching me, and there’s the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes now. Almost like he knows exactly what I assumed.
My face burns.
“I’ll handle the delivery,” Claire says awkwardly, clearly sensing tension she doesn’t understand.
I force my expression blank. Then I walk away before I make a bigger fool of myself.
By the time I step out of the cab in front of my apartment building later that evening, exhaustion has settled heavily into my bones.
Rainwater glistens across the sidewalk beneath the streetlights while I adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder. All I want tonight is a shower and silence.
Then I notice the black SUVs parked across the street. My steps slow slightly, squinting at the tinted windows.
The cars are so out of place in my neighborhood.
A bad feeling crawls slowly up my spine. Still, I continue toward the building entrance, assuming it’s probably nothing to worry about.
The lie barely settles in my head before a man steps directly into my path. My heart jumps.
The intimidating man is dressed in an expensive charcoal coat that somehow makes his glaring expression more terrifying.
“Ms. Sinclair.”
How does he know who I am?
I tighten my grip on my purse instinctively. “Can I help you?”
His gaze flicks over me.
“You can call me Vincent Torres.”
Something about the name means absolutely nothing to me and somehow still makes my stomach tighten.
“I think you have the wrong person.”
“No.” His expression remains unreadable. “I have the correct person. You owe my employers money.”
A burst of laughter escapes me, and Vincent stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. His deep-set eyes tell me that this isn’t some prank.
I look around for the cameras nonetheless, hoping this is the universe playing a huge joke on me.
“That’s impossible,” I mutter.
“Your repayment is currently two weeks overdue.”
The exhaustion disappears instantly from my body as my shoulder straightens. Something about the way he’s saying this, despite never loaning any money from anyone, makes my stomach twist with dread.
“I don’t owe anyone money.”
Vincent reaches into his coat calmly and pulls out a thin folder. He hands it over, and I open it automatically.
My blood runs cold as I stare at my name and social security number attached to the loan documents. My address and full body picture are also pinned on another paper.
The transaction history feels too real, and the signature makes this worse.
The paper nearly slips from my trembling hands. “What the hell is this?”
“A seven-figure loan taken from Blackthorne Financial approximately eight months ago.”
My head snaps up. “I never signed this.”
“You did electronically.”
“I’m telling you I didn’t.”
Vincent watches me carefully, completely unmoved by my outbursts. Panic starts creeping into my chest now because the information is real.
Even the signatures look frighteningly convincing. It’s not just conniving, but rather a copy and paste of my signature.
Did I somehow do this while I was out of it? Then where was the money when I was struggling so badly?
Then another realization crashes into me. Eight months ago, Tristan still had access to my apartment, back then, and basically every inch of my life. Laptop and information.
Could he have?
No, Tristan wouldn’t be that heartless, would he?
Oh my God.
“This wasn’t me,” I say immediately. “Someone must have stolen my identity?—”
“We’re not particularly interested in your complaints, but swift payment, Ms. Sinclair.”
Anger flashes hot through me. If I’d been the one to loan and use this money, then I wouldn’t feel so angry. But I didn’t.
“Someone committed fraud in my identity.”
“And the debt still exists.”
“This is insane,” I argue, my heart beating with a frenzy.
Vincent's jaw ticks as he pulls his coat tighter around him. “You have one month.”
“One month for what?”
“To begin repayment before this becomes unpleasant,” he warns sternly. “You can hold on to those files as a reminder.”
The threat beneath his calm tone is unmistakable. I force myself to straighten anyway.
“I’m not paying for something I didn’t do.”
“Then I suggest you resolve the matter with whoever did.”
He steps back slightly, and just like that, he walks toward the cars.
“You can’t seriously expect me to magically produce this amount in a month,” I call after him, but he doesn’t react.
I stand frozen on the sidewalk as my hands shake.
Tristan.
It has to be Tristan. There’s no one else who could’ve done this. No one else had that kind of access to my life.
Tears burn at the back of my throat as my hands ball into fists.
I can’t believe I actually almost married that man. My phone is already in my hand as I storm toward my apartment.
I call him immediately. It rings twice before he picks up.
“Roxy.” Tristan sounds distracted. “This better be important.”
My jaw clenches. “You used my identity for a loan.”
There’s a brief silence from the other end, then a soft chuckle that only worsens my anger.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying.”
“Careful.” His tone sharpens slightly. “You’re sounding emotional.”
I nearly see red. “You forged legal documents.”
“Again,” he says lazily. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re going to fix this.”
“Not tonight, I won’t be.”
It isn’t his name and life hanging in the balance here, so he won’t be in a hurry as I am. That drives me crazier.
“Tristan—”
“I’m busy.”
“We need to meet,” I snap.
He pauses again, then finally lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine. This weekend.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s what you’re getting.”
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. Screaming at him over the phone won’t solve anything. I need to approach this calmly to make sure my life doesn’t get ruined.
“We’ll talk then,” I say tightly.
“Looking forward to it.”
The line disconnects right away. I stare at my phone for a long second before laughing softly in disbelief. Then I finally head upstairs, feeling like my entire life just tilted sideways.