Chapter 11 Ella
ELLA
“Again,” Waters demands, holding up his gloves.
He’s taken over my self-defense training since Robert is in Singapore with Asher.
After the threat from Katrina, and the attack from Kyle, Asher and the security team are dead set on me becoming as proficient as I can be at self-defense.
So far, I think it’s going okay. With my years of dance, I can lock on to most of what Waters instructs me to do, but this is a whole different type of movement from what I’m used to.
There are times I feel about as coordinated as a newborn giraffe.
I punch again, and this time I hit the pad on his hand closer to its center.
Today’s focus is on how to land a punch without injuring my own hands or wrists.
Last lesson was on the pressure points of an attacker’s body and how to inflict pain quickly and get away.
Sometime soon, I’ll even have handgun training.
I won’t lie, I’m nervous about that one.
I’ve never even touched a gun, so I’m not sure how I feel about handling or shooting one, but it’s apparently something very common in Asher’s family. Even his mom knows how to shoot one.
“Remember, keep your elbow slightly bent or you could hyper-extend it and injure yourself. Your elbow should never fully straighten when you punch.”
I try again.
“Better,” Waters says. “But try to aim for the center of the target.”
I try again and again, determined that what happened with Kyle will never happen again.
Asher is right about one thing, if I do stay with him in the long term, my life will never be simple.
There will always be potential threats. He’s too wealthy, too powerful, and too well-known to have a normal life, and if I’m going to be part of that life, I want to have more control.
Yes, I’ll always have security officers, but being able to handle myself is something I’ve realized is non-negotiable.
I get marginally better as the training session progresses, and finally, when sweat is pouring down me in rivulets and my arms feel like they’re going to fall off, Waters allows me to stop.
But my relief is only temporary, because the minute I pick up my phone, I see a text from Emily.
Heads up, a bad headline just hit the press. It’s all over the internet. Don’t you worry about a thing, though. We’ll get it handled.
I had my news notifications turned off since I was training, but now I click on the link to the article Emily sent me.
Asher Langford Cheating Scandal
A photo beneath the headline shows Katrina and Asher at a restaurant.
She’s leaning toward him with a sultry, besotted look on her face, and there’s a second photo of the two of them standing and Katrina is kissing his cheek.
I knew she surprised him at the restaurant, but I didn’t know they were this cozy when it happened.
My gut sinks. I know they have a history together, but I also know Asher hates the Antonovs. The way he described Katrina made me think he didn’t like or respect her, but the photos look like he feels quite the opposite. In fact, they look pretty damn incriminating.
A nasty voice in the back of my mind reminds me that you can hate someone and still fuck them.
But Asher would never do that.
Right?
Insecurities and doubts flood me. I’ve always been a confident person, but I’m certainly not bullet proof.
I was cheated on by a past boyfriend. And then there’s the whole Kyle debacle.
Asher is literally one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet.
He can have any woman he wants, whenever he wants—and he’s used to that.
He’s used to sleeping with models, actresses, and any other beautiful woman who catches his eye.
He doesn’t even have to work for it, they literally throw themselves at him.
I read through the article, my stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots as I do.
The article talks about my meteoric rise to fame but insists that I lack substance to back it.
I’m painted as the little PR employee who ensnared Asher, while Katrina is hailed for being an oil heiress well known in New York high society.
It also depicts Katrina as Asher’s long-lost love, as “the one who got away.”
I know it’s not true. I know that—I keep telling myself that—but it has a hard time registering. Maybe because of the rollercoaster Asher and I have been on for the last few weeks.
I click out of the article and let out a long breath.
This is part of being with Asher, I remind myself.
Tabloid stories follow him wherever he goes, and the writers of those stories don’t give a shit about him or anyone in his life.
If I stay with him, I will always have comparisons lobbed at me.
I’ll be compared to his mom because of her fame, and to any women previously linked to him.
I’ll always be in the line of fire of having other women compared to me.
That’s just the way it is. The world just loves to pit women against each other, and I will forever have to deal with it.
I can’t let this derail me.
I remind myself of that again and again until I think I believe it.
Two hours later, I’m going stir crazy while texing back and forth with Emily and Matthew as we come up with a plan to combat the article.
I’m reading through the article for the third time when an ad for a baking blog pops up on my phone.
I click on it. That same nasty voice in the back of my head tells me I must be on the verge of a mental breakdown because I’ve never had any interest in cooking or baking, but I ignore it.
With the Kyle drama, the Langford drama, and now the press drama swirling around me, I’m about one second away from screaming into a pillow, so baking sounds like the perfect distraction.
The recipe is for some sort of fancy chocolate chip cookies, so I don’t think it can be that hard.
Busying myself with baking cookies has to be better than contemplating cutting bangs, right?
I prop my phone on the counter and dig through the massive kitchen and pantry, grabbing the supplies listed.
I read through the list twice and think I have it all.
I follow the instructions on the blog between answering texts and emails from the team, and it does wonders in distracting me each time I wrap up one of those texts or emails.
I finish with the dough, and then it takes me a solid five minutes to figure out how to work the fancy industrial-type oven, but I eventually manage to get cookie dough onto a sheet pan and get that pan in the oven.
The venture into baking has served as a solid ninety minutes of distraction, so I count it as a win.
My phone rings just as I close the oven door.
“Hi,” I say to Asher as I pick up.
“Hi, baby. Emily just sent me the article. Are you okay?”
I sigh. “I’m fine. It’s just a very . . . convincing article.”
“It’s all bullshit, I swear to you. If Katrina had been a man, I probably would have punched her right there in the restaurant with how angry I was. But the way the picture was taken, the angle of the photo doesn’t show the rage that I know was present on my face.”
I think back over the pictures, noting that they were taken from Asher’s profile, so it was hard to see the expression on his face.
“She did this on purpose,” he growls. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d planted someone to take the pictures and sell them.
At the time I thought she was just playing coy with her advances, trying to soften the blow of the threats she was making so that I wouldn’t go ballistic.
Now, I realize it was a set up. But I promise you, nothing happened.
She surprised me with that kiss, and I pulled away immediately.
I don’t want that woman anywhere in my vicinity, let alone her lips on my skin.
Just thinking about it is making my balls curl up inside me. ”
I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me. “You promise?”
“I promise. I don’t want anyone else, Ella.
No woman has ever made me feel a fraction of what I feel for you.
This is the Antonovs playing games. I know they have someone on my board in their pockets, and so I can only assume they know, or at least suspect, that our relationship is a PR stunt, and they’re playing into that.
They know that the more upset the board gets, the more likely I am to lose those shares, and if that happens, they win everything they want. ”
Some of the knots in my stomach loosen. “I believe you. It’s just hard to see. Especially when my shiny newness will fade at any moment, and the articles about me will get worse and worse. The world wants you with another big name. Not a no-name employee.”
“Well, the world can go fuck itself, because I don’t want a big name. I happen to be stupidly obsessed with my amazing, gorgeous, smart as hell, perfect, no-name employee.”
“I’m pretty obsessed with my big-name billionaire, so I guess we’re the same in that regard.”
Now Asher laughs.
“Are you sure you’re okay, baby?”
“I’m fine, mostly. On the plus side of things, since I’m forced to stay in the apartment, I decided to try baking cookies. I think it’s going okay.”
Pierre enters the kitchen just then carrying two bags of groceries, and freezes.
His eyes widen in horror as they scan over the kitchen.
I look at it, blushing as I take in the carnage.
The island is covered in flour, dirty utensils, baking sheets, bowls, and ingredients.
A few chunks of cookie dough that I flung hard to get off my fingers are splattered on the cabinets and floor.
Pierre lets out a slew of words in French that I’m pretty sure are curses.
“Sorry for the mess!” I spurt. “I decided to try baking.”
“It sounds like Pierre is enjoying sharing the kitchen with you,” Asher says with a chuckle, and I remember that I’m on the phone with him.
I hold the phone close and speak in a low tone. “Yeah, he just got here to prep lunch, and I’m pretty sure he had a mini aneurysm when he saw the state of the kitchen.”
“He probably did.”
“I think he’s cursing in French under his breath.”
“He probably is.”
“He won’t actually kill me, right?”
“Probably not.”
I try to start cleaning my mess, but Pierre makes a shooing motion with his hands, and since his left eye is twitching, I back away. I take a seat on a bar stool and focus back on my conversation with Asher.
“So, what are we going to do about this, Mr. Langford?”
“Do about what, Ms. Hale?”
“About the Antonovs and their stupid oil company. I can’t live like Rapunzel, locked in a tower for the rest of my days. I mean, your penthouse is one hell of a tower, but still.”
“I’m going to start with destroying the Antonovs.”
“Sounds good. How can I help?”
He chuckles. “You want to help me take down my enemies?”
“Of course I do. What is that thing where people start to take on the traits and hobbies of their significant other? I have that. Your revenge hobby is now my revenge hobby. Plus, they’re threatening me, so it’s only fair that I threaten them back.”
“You’re something else, Ms. Hale.”
“I aim for excellence, Mr. Langford. But what I need is a direction to start with. What’s your angle with the Antonovs? Whatever it is, I want in.”
“I love that you want to help, but you know my answer.”
“Asher . . .”
He sighs. “No, baby. There’s too much risk and too many unknowns. The best way to help me is to keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Destroying the kitchen by trying to bake?”
He chuckles again. “No. You can keep creating positive attention about our relationship. The more we’re seen together, and the bigger the headlines are, the more ammo we’ll have against the board. You let me and my brothers take on the Antonovs, and you take on the media.”
“Asher,” I say in a groan. “There has to be something I can do.”
“Just be you. That’s all I need.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say, but I’m serious.”
“And so am I.”
“I can do something that doesn’t involve risk.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t take that chance.”
“Fine,” I huff, knowing I’m not going to win this argument today.
I know Asher well enough to know that if I were to put myself in harm’s way, he would lose his ever-loving shit.
And after what went down with Kyle, I’m in no hurry to put myself at physical risk, so I’m happy to respect that boundary.
But I’m not about to sit back and do nothing.
I’ll just have to find a way to help without alerting Asher.
An acrid, burning smell hits me, and I startle. “Oh, shit! The cookies!”
I drop my phone and race across the kitchen where Pierre is taking a smoking tray of cookies out of the oven.
“I’m sorry, Pierre! Let me help.”
He sets the tray down and waves a hand to disperse the smoke in the air.
“No, no. Please, Miss Ella, just let me do the baking for you. You don’t need to be in the kitchen. That is what Mr. Langford pays me for.”
“Are they ruined?” I don’t know why I ask that; they’re clearly burnt.
“Miss Ella, these are not cookies. These are rocks. Go, go. Out of the kitchen, please.”
“I can clean it up.”
“No, Miss Ella. I will clean. I just need you out.”
I flush scarlet. “Okay. I’m so sorry I made such a mess.”
He waves me off, and I pick up my phone and head into the living room.
“Sorry, I dropped my phone,” I say as I get back on the line with Asher.
He barks out a laugh. “It seems like the baking was a success.”
“Pierre just kicked me out of the kitchen. But if you hadn’t been distracting me, I would have remembered to set the timer on the oven, and then the cookies wouldn’t be burnt right now.”
Asher snorts. “Somehow I don’t think my distractions were the problem.”
“Okay, so I’m no domestic goddess. But I don’t give up easily. One day I’ll bake some delicious cookies.”
“You do that, baby. But in the meantime, let’s leave the kitchen duties to Pierre and focus on the board.”
I can do that. For now.
“You got it, Mr. Langford.”