Chapter 38
ASHER
Grace's face crumples further, her body folding in on itself as she wraps her arms around her middle. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, the marble walls closing in as I watch my wife unravel.
"Grace." I step closer, gripping her shoulders firmly. "Who told you that you're a terrible writer?"
She shakes her head, tears streaming faster now. "It doesn't matter—"
"It matters to me." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but the protective rage building in my chest won't be contained. Someone hurt her. Someone made her believe she wasn't enough.
I have to calm myself, because I know if I demand answers from her, it will only get her more worked up.
Instead, I pull her against my chest, flattening my palm as I run circles over her back.
I steady my breathing, and eventually hers follows suit.
She tries to move away, but for a long moment, I don't let her.
We sit like that, holding on tight to each other and breathing deeply.
It's calming, peaceful. Maybe the most peaceful I've felt in my life.
But still, rearing under the surface is something she's not telling me.
"Tell me what happened. Please." I soften my tone.
Grace stays pressed against me, like she can't bear to face me, and that's okay. I keep soothing her as she finally speaks. "I had an agent. I met him at NYU, at a mixer for seniors in the creative writing program."
Ice floods my veins at the way her voice wavers.
"He seemed so interested in my work." She continues, words tumbling out faster now.
"Said my manuscript was brilliant, one of the best things he'd read.
He signed me immediately. We had meetings to go over edits, notes, revisions.
He'd have me come to his office, and we'd work through chapters together. "
My hands tighten around her.
"At first, it was professional. But then.
.." She swallows hard. "He started sitting closer.
His hand would linger on my arm, my back.
The meetings moved from conference rooms to his private office.
One day, he..." A shaky breath makes her pause.
"His hand went too low. I pushed him away, told him I wasn't interested.
But he kept trying, saying he'd fallen in love with my mind, that we had this connection. "
Fury coils, hot and vicious, in my gut. I force myself to stay still, to let her finish.
"When I kept refusing, he changed. Got mean.
Said I was a terrible writer, that my work was garbage.
That he'd only signed me out of pity, and if I wanted my book published, I'd need to.
.. 'help him out.'" The last words come out barely above a whisper.
"I left. Reported him to his agency, but nothing happened.
He's too connected, too powerful. They said it was my word against his. "
"What happened after?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, too calm, too controlled.
"I don't know." She shrugs, looking forlorn. "I've queried, but all I get is rejection letters. Maybe he was right."
"Is this why you had writer’s block?"
Grace nods. "Yeah, kind of hard to write when you feel like an ultimate failure." She sniffles.
Something snaps inside me.
I want to hurt him for making her feel like this.
I want to make him absolutely fucking miserable.
But first, I need to make sure she knows that she’s not a failure. That shitbag is.
"Listen to me very carefully, Sugar." I press my lips to her temple, speaking low and deliberate. "That man is a predator. Nothing he said was true. Do you understand? Nothing."
"But I wasn’t able to write—"
"Because he traumatized you. Not because you lack talent." I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You wrote thousands of words this week. Beautiful words that got you so lost you forgot to eat. That's not a terrible writer. That's someone with a gift."
Her lower lip trembles.
"And those women in the hallway?" I wipe tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. "They're jealous, bitter people who have nothing better to do than tear others down. You know what I see when I look at you?"
She shakes her head.
"Strength. Someone who moved to this city with a dream and refused to give up, even when some piece of shit tried to destroy it.
Someone who was willing to marry me rather than give up on her dream.
" I pause, the words feeling inadequate.
"Someone who trusted me enough to submit, to let me see parts of herself she keeps hidden from everyone else. "
"Asher—"
"I'm not done." My grip tightens. "So you are not going to let some loser with a speck of power make you feel worthless. Do you understand me?"
Her breath hitches, hazel eyes searching mine, and then she nods. When my eyes narrow, she quickly responds.
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. Now give me his full name and where he works."
Grace blinks. "Why?"
"Because I'm going to destroy him."
"Asher, no— You can't—"
"I'm kidding," I lie to her, but her face softens, believing me. "I just want to see if I know him."
She nods, eyes cast down when she tells me. "Richard Caldwell. He's with the Sterling Agency."
I press a gentle kiss to her lips and pull out my phone, tapping out a message to Charles.
Need full background on Richard Caldwell, literary agent at Sterling Agency.
"Thank you for telling me." I smooth her hair back from her face. "Now let's fix your makeup and get back out there."
"I don't think I can—"
"Yes, you can." I kiss her forehead. "You walk back out there with your head high, my ring on your finger, and my collar around your neck. You can do that for me, right?"
She touches the pearls instinctively, biting her lip.
"You're mine, remember?" My voice drops lower. "And I protect what's mine."
A shaky breath, then a nod.
I help her clean up her face, wiping away the streaks of mascara with a damp towel. She reapplies lipstick with trembling hands, and I steady them with my own.
"Better?" she asks, studying her reflection.
"Perfect." I spin her to face me. "One more thing."
"What?"
"When we get back out there, I'm going to kiss you. Really kiss you. In front of everyone. And you're going to let them see exactly how much you enjoy being mine. Understood?"
Color floods her cheeks. "Yes, Sir."
The honorific sends heat straight to my groin, but I push it down. Later. Right now, we have a party to return to and a statement to make.
I take her hand, threading our fingers together, and lead her back to the party.
The crowd parts as we approach, conversations dipping to watch us. I pull Grace close, one hand sliding into her hair while the other grips her waist.
And then I kiss her.
Not chaste. Not polite.
I claim her mouth like I own it, tongue sweeping past her lips, swallowing the small gasp she makes. Her hands clutch my jacket, body melting against mine as I deepen the kiss.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and her eyes are glazed, and everyone at this party knows exactly who Grace Caine belongs to.
Charles arrives at my office on Tuesday morning, crisp suit and that perpetual British composure firmly in place. He drops a manila folder on my desk without preamble.
"Richard Caldwell," he says simply.
I lean back in my chair, eyeing the folder. "That was fast."
"Marcus." He settles into the chair across from me, crossing one leg over the other. There's no further explanation needed. Marcus is an employee in the IT department who we use whenever we need information on someone. He's good at his job and paid well for it.
I flip open the folder. Photos, documents, a timeline stretching back years.
"What am I looking at?"
Charles's expression hardens. "First, why do you care?"
I look up to see Charles studying me, one eyebrow lifted.
I've ruined people before. It's not like I'm a saint. That's how you get ahead in business. But Charles has always been along for the ride. Now I'm asking him to dig up dirt on someone and not telling him why.
How do I say, because I'm obsessed with my wife and want to make anybody who’s ever hurt her pay for their mistake?
Is that kind of obsession normal, even in real marriages?
I trace my tongue over my teeth while I debate my answer. Charles doesn't give me time to come up with one, though.
"Is it because of Grace?"
"Why would you ask that?" I sit up straighter.
He nods to the file. "There are women in that file. All with very similar stories."
"Which are?" My pulse is thrumming, knowing exactly what he's about to tell me.
"Richard signed them. Promised them a lucrative book deal while selling them a story of how talented they were."
"Did he actually publish any of them?" My fists are clenched, chest tight.
"A few," Charles answers casually. "There's a correlation to the ones who slept with him. Though not all of them were actually published."
"Jesus," I groan, rubbing a hand over my face and shutting the file.
"So back to my question. Is this about Grace?"
Charles is probably my only friend. I should trust him. I want to think I do. But deep down, I've always found trusting people to be difficult. I can't remember a time when someone didn't twist my words back to me or use my secrets against me.
I shake my head. "No."
Charles is still staring at me like he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push it further. He stands, rapping his fist on my desk. "Well then, it'd be a shame if someone put a stop to a guy like him." He's being sarcastic, confirming for me that he knows I'm up to something.
I drum my fingers on the folder, mind already calculating moves. Richard Caldwell thinks he's untouchable. Protected by his agency, his connections, his track record of silencing victims.
He's about to learn what real power looks like.
After Charles leaves, I open the folder again, committing names and details to memory. Seven women. Seven careers damaged or destroyed. How many others didn't come forward? How many gave up before even trying?
Richard Caldwell is going to pay for what he did to Grace. He's going to pay for every tear she cried. Every word she couldn't write. Every moment she believed his lies about her worth.
I pull up my contacts, scrolling until I find the name I need. Thomas Brennan, investigative journalist for The Times. We've worked together before, trading information when it suited us both.
Asher
Have a story for you. Interested in exposing a predator in the publishing industry?
His response comes within minutes.
Thomas
Always. What have you got?
Asher
Pattern of sexual harassment and assault. Seven victims willing to go on record once they know they're protected. NDAs that won't hold up under criminal investigation. An agency that's been covering it up for years.
Thomas
Send me what you have. If it checks out, this could be big.
I forward the file, then make another call. This one to a lawyer I know who specializes in employment discrimination and sexual harassment cases. She's vicious in court and has a particular hatred for powerful men who abuse their positions.
"Rebecca Hart."
"Ms. Hart, this is Asher Caine. I have a case you might be interested in..."
By the time I hang up, the wheels are in motion. Thomas will break the story. Rebecca will represent any of Caldwell's victims who want to pursue legal action. And I'll make sure they have the resources to see it through—legal fees, living expenses, whatever they need to not back down.
Richard Caldwell's career is about to implode.
And he'll never know who lit the match.