Chapter 8
Roxanne
Why did I let that happen?
I should have controlled myself harder.
The aftermath of my sex with Asher somehow hurts more than finding out Tristan was cheating on me ever did.
That realization follows me all the way home.
I sit in the backseat of the cab staring blankly at passing scenery that now feels too gloomy.
My body still feels warm from Asher’s touch. That’s the most humiliating part of this whole ordeal.
Even now, after the things he said to me, my skin still remembers him. The weight of him over me and the way he kissed me like he was starving.
The way he held me afterward, like it actually meant something, haunts me the most.
I close my eyes briefly, rubbing my temple.
What exactly did I expect?
For Asher Sterling to suddenly become a man capable of emotional intimacy? He practically handed me money after sleeping with me.
Not directly, but the meaning was still there: I’ll take care of you financially. You keep warming my bed.
That he’d even suggest that disgusts me.
Yet, I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s exactly the kind of relationship Asher believes women like me want. The worst part is that for a few reckless hours, I actually thought maybe what existed between us was real. And that maybe the tension between us meant something deeper than sex and obsession.
I almost deluded myself into believing the reason he looked at me like that was that somewhere beneath all that control, Asher actually cared.
That was so unbelievably stupid of me.
It's like, somehow, the old me who got her heart broken by him seven years ago still exists somewhere inside me.
By the time the cab pulls up outside my apartment building, exhaustion presses heavily against my ribs.
I pay the driver and head upstairs, stopping automatically at apartment 4B before going home.
Warm laughter spills faintly through the door before I even knock. Then comes the rapid sound of gunfire from a video game. I smile despite myself.
Mrs. Hernandez opens the door almost immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her expression softens the second she sees me.
Mrs. Hernandez has lived in this building longer than anyone remembers. Somewhere in her late sixties, maybe early seventies, though she’d probably smack anyone who asked directly.
She’s tiny and sharp-tongued, but adoringly warm-hearted.
She has managed to adopt Felix and me years ago without ever officially discussing it. It's to the point that we spend more time in her apartment than we spend in ours.
“Hi, Mrs. Hernandez.”
“You look tired.” Her dark eyes narrow immediately. “Did you eat?”
That’s always her first concern.
“I’m fine.”
“That means no.”
Before I can answer, Felix’s voice drifts from the living room. “Roxy?”
I step inside to find him sprawled across the couch, holding a game controller while some action game explodes loudly across the television screen.
Mrs. Hernandez bought him the console last Christmas after declaring teenage boys needed hobbies besides ‘walking around looking emotionally constipated.’
Felix pretended not to care when she presented him with this, even though we could see his eyes twinkling. Then he proceeded to play it for six straight hours.
Now he barely looks away from the screen as I approach.
“You’re late,” he mutters.
“I had work.”
“You work too much.”
“You spend too much time yelling at strangers online,” I counter smoothly. “You don’t see me complaining.
Mrs. Hernandez snorts loudly from the kitchen. “That’s called being fourteen.”
Felix winks at Mrs. Hernandez, and I roll my eyes, fighting back a smile. If care is not taken, she’s going to spoil Felix rotten.
However, for the first time this weekend, I actually relaxed.
God, I needed this.
“You hungry?” Mrs. Hernandez asks while stirring something on the stove. “I made arroz con pollo.”
“You always save me.”
“I know.”
Felix glances toward me again and stares for longer this time. I squint at him.
“You okay?” He asks, raising a brow.
I hold off a gasp, wondering how he can tell that everything’s actually not okay. Has he always been this perceptive?
The question is casual, which means he’s actually worried.
I immediately force a lighter tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You look murdery.”
Mrs. Hernandez points a spoon toward him. “Language.”
“Murdery isn’t a bad word.”
“It sounds like one.”
I laugh softly despite myself before dropping onto the couch beside him.
“I’m fine, Felix.”
He studies me for another second, like he doesn’t fully believe me. Then, thankfully, let's go. Mrs. Hernandez doesn’t.
“Honey,” she says more gently now. “You know that boy leaving was the best thing that happened to you.”
Tristan.
Of course, she assumes my mood still revolves around Tristan. Honestly, I wish it did. It would be simpler.
“He cheated on you,” she continues firmly. “A man who embarrasses you publicly is not a man worth crying over.”
“I’m not crying over him.”
I bet Mrs. Hernandez would go wild with rage if she learned of what he’s done now. I can’t tell her that for her health and my own sanity.
“No?” One brow lifts knowingly. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
Felix grimaces. “That’s weirdly specific.”
“Hush.”
I lean back against the couch cushions slowly. For a second, I almost tell her everything about the loan and Asher.
And about how badly I’ve managed to ruin my own life lately. But the words stay trapped behind my teeth.
I know once spoken aloud, things become real.
And right now, I still feel like I’m barely holding myself together.
Mrs. Hernandez softens slightly when I stay quiet. “You know what you need?”
I frown. I already don’t trust that tone of hers.
“A blind date.”
I blink. “Absolutely not.”
Felix bursts out laughing immediately. “She’d kill the guy.”
“I would not.”
“You look murdery,” he repeats helpfully.
Mrs. Hernandez ignores both of us. “My nephew is a dentist.”
“That sentence alone makes me want to say no.”
“He owns a practice in Brooklyn.”
“I’d rather drown.”
Felix grins openly now. Mrs. Hernandez waves dismissively.
“Fine. Maybe not him. But you should go out with someone.”
“I just ended an engagement.”
“With a fool.”
“Still.”
Her expression softens again. “Not every man is like Tristan, sweetheart.”
The problem is that the only man I seem capable of wanting might actually be worse.
Monday morning arrives far too quickly. I bury myself in work immediately because focusing on spreadsheets feels significantly safer than thinking about Asher Sterling naked.
Unfortunately, my brain refuses to cooperate.
Every time I close my eyes, I remember his mouth against my throat and how he felt inside me.
By noon, my stress over the loan situation finally outweighs my embarrassment. I need legal advice.
Not the internet searches I conducted at two in the morning while spiraling emotionally. Hudson notices something is wrong almost immediately.
“You’ve looked distracted all morning.”
I glance up from my computer carefully. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Do you know a good lawyer?”
That gets his full attention.
His expression sharpens slightly. “What kind of lawyer?”
“Financial, maybe.”
Concern flickers briefly across his face.
“You in trouble?”
“No.” The lie comes too quickly. “I just need advice.”
Hudson studies me for a second longer, but he doesn’t push for it. He smiles and picks up his phone.
“One of my closest friends handles corporate litigation,” he says finally. “I can set up a meeting with her for you.”
“That would be lovely.”
Relief loosens something in my chest instantly. I watch as he taps on his phone, my heartbeat quickening with every passing second.
About three minutes later, he smiles up at me. “She’s actually free this afternoon.”
I blink. “And she’s willing to meet me?”
“Of course. I cashed in on an old favor.”
I feel really bad that he has to go to such lengths for me, but I’m also very grateful.
I’ve been around so many questionable men lately that I’ve forgotten decent men existed.
“I can drive you during lunch break. She’ll make time. And if it runs too long, we’ll just consider it an external meeting,” he offers casually.
I hesitate briefly before nodding. “Thank you.”
The law office sits downtown inside one of those intimidating skyscrapers built entirely from glass and money.
Hudson walks beside me through the lobby while I try not to feel nauseous.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I tell him quietly as I’m about to enter the meeting room and notice him sitting.
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “I drove you here. It’s only fair I take you back.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
The lawyer, Vanessa Cole, is elegant, sharp-eyed, and terrifyingly intelligent. Within twenty minutes of staring at the documents Vincent left me, she already understands the situation better than I do.
And unfortunately, she does not look optimistic.
“These documents are extremely thorough,” she says carefully while flipping through the file.
I grip my coffee cup tighter. “But they’re fake.”
“I believe you.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
Vanessa exhales slowly. “The issue isn’t whether fraud occurred. The issue is proving it against people powerful enough to bury complications quietly.”
A chill crawls slowly down my spine. My expression hardens slightly.
“How powerful are we talking?”
Vanessa takes a breath briefly before answering. “The Blackthorne Group has financial interests tied to half this city.”
My stomach drops. That’s the name Vincent mentioned briefly before.
Blackthorne.
I thought it was just some private lending operation. Apparently not.
“They own investment firms, real estate holdings, nightlife businesses,” Vanessa continues calmly. “Officially, they’re legitimate.”
“And unofficially?” I ask quietly.
She pauses. That pause tells me everything I need to know.
“People generally prefer not to fight with them.”
Silence settles heavily across the office. I suddenly feel very, very tired. Knowing this is a battle that’s already stacked against me makes my heart break harder.
“There has to be something I can do.”
Vanessa’s expression softens slightly now.
“If this truly originated through identity fraud, there are legal avenues. But realistically?” She closes the file gently. “You’d be taking on people with far more money, influence, and protection than you.”
Hopelessness creeps coldly into my chest.
I lean forward slightly. “What if we prove my ex-fiancé did it?”
“Then you’ll need evidence.”
I think back to Tristan. His reaction and complete lack of fear tell me that it will be almost impossible to prove he did this.
Oh God.
He knew this would fall back on me.
“He won’t confess,” I say quietly.
“No,” Vanessa agrees softly. “People like that rarely do.”
I stare down at the paperwork spread across the desk. My life slowly collapses across legal documents I never signed. And for the first time since this nightmare started, genuine fear settles heavily in my stomach.