7. Anya #3
"And it's what makes the work meaningful," Vincent adds. "Running a business just for profit burns people out. Running one for purpose sustains them."
Jones nods slowly. "The most successful businesses we've consulted with have that same clarity of purpose. They know why they exist beyond making money."
The validation warms me from the inside out, but it's more than just professional approval.
It's the recognition that they understand what this means to me, why I'm willing to pour my inheritance and my energy into something as risky as a small business. They see the vision and believe it's worth pursuing.
The check arrives, and Jones handles it with the same quiet authority he brings to everything else. No discussion, no negotiation—just efficient resolution. As we stand to leave, Eric's hand finds the small of my back, warm and possessive through the fabric of my dress.
The parking lot is mostly empty now, our footsteps echoing off concrete as we walk toward the cars. Vincent reaches his first, but instead of immediately getting in, he turns to me.
"The research you've been doing—that's exactly the kind of preparation that separates successful ventures from expensive hobbies." His hand cups my face briefly, thumb brushing across my cheek. "I'm proud of you."
The words hit me harder than I expect. Coming from Vincent, who pushed me the hardest and asked the most difficult questions, they feel earned in a way that casual compliments never do.
Eric kisses me next, his mouth warm and lingering against mine. "Sweet dreams, gorgeous. See you tomorrow."
Then it's just Jones and me, walking toward his car in comfortable silence. The evening air is cool against my arms, and I'm hyperaware of his presence beside me—the controlled way he moves, the subtle scent of his cologne, the quiet authority that never needs to announce itself.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the leather seat, watching as he rounds the front of the car with purposeful strides.
The interior is immaculate, everything in its place, from the perfectly organized center console to the absence of any clutter or personal items. It's exactly what I would expect from Jones—functional, high-quality, without unnecessary flourish.
The engine purrs to life, and we pull out of the parking lot onto the main road. Street lights cast moving shadows through the windows, and I find myself relaxing into the seat, the tension of the day finally bleeding away.
The dinner, the conversation, the easy warmth between all four of us—it feels like something shifting into place, pieces of a puzzle finding their proper positions.
"You're quiet," Jones observes, his voice low in the dim interior of the car.
"Good quiet," I assure him, turning to study his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his hands rest confidently on the steering wheel, the subtle flex of his forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Tonight. How different it felt from..." I pause, searching for the right words. "From the office. From the clinical."
His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "We're not always conducting business, Anya."
"I know that. It's just—seeing you all together like that, outside of work, it made me realize something.
" The words come easier in the darkness, with only his profile visible and the hum of the engine surrounding us.
"You really are brothers. Not just business partners or men who happen to share a father. Family."
"We are." His response is simple, certain. "Has that been unclear?"
"Not unclear. Just... I think I understand it better now. The way you look out for each other, tease each other, defer to each other when it matters." I shift in my seat, turning more fully toward him. "The way you included me in it tonight."
The silence stretches for several blocks, comfortable and charged at the same time. When Jones speaks again, his voice has dropped to that lower register that makes my pulse quicken.
"You stayed with Vincent last night."
The statement hangs in the air, not quite a question but clearly expecting a response. Heat floods my cheeks at the memory—Vincent's hands on my skin, his mouth against my throat, the way he'd held me afterward with surprising tenderness.
"I did." There's no point in denying it, and I wouldn't want to even if there were.
Jones pulls into my driveway and puts the car in park, but doesn't immediately move to get out. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his blue eyes dark in the dim light.
"Tonight, you're mine."
The words land like a physical touch, possessive and absolute. Not a request, not a negotiation—a statement of fact delivered with the quiet certainty that defines everything about Jones Ashford.
My breath catches, heat pooling low in my stomach at the promise in his voice.
The space between us feels electric, charged with want and anticipation.
I want to reach for him, to close the distance and claim his mouth with mine, but something in his expression tells me to wait.
He's in control here, and the knowledge sends a thrill through me that I'm still learning to accept.