Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
NOLA
I trace the edge of my bottom lip with my fingertip, careful not to smudge the lipstick that took me three attempts to apply evenly.
I’ve never been a lipstick person. But tonight is not a jeans-and-lip-balm kind of night, and the woman at the department store counter was very persuasive. Or I was very panicked. Either way, my lips are now “Crimson Reign” and my hands won’t stop shaking.
My reflection stares back at me from the hotel mirror.
A woman I barely recognize in an emerald silk dress.
She looks like she belongs here, in this five-star hotel, in this life.
Like she hasn’t spent the last year couch-surfing after losing everything.
I keep waiting for her to blink and turn back into the girl in the yellow dress with the fraying cardigan, but she doesn’t.
She just stands there looking like someone who has her shit together, which is the most impressive illusion I’ve ever pulled off.
Behind me, the bathroom door opens. Caleb steps out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and something hot and possessive flashes across his face before he schools his expression.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice low and rough.
I turn to face him. “You’re not even dressed yet.”
“We still have plenty of time.”
I watch as he dresses, each layer adding another piece of armor.
Black pants, crisp white shirt, onyx cufflinks, black bow tie.
By the time he slips on the jacket, he’s transformed from the man who carries me to bed and calls me “good girl” into something polished and powerful and untouchable.
The kind of man who fills magazine covers and makes people nervous in elevators.
It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. It is anyway.
I step closer, place my palm against his back, feel the heat of him through the expensive fabric. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We could go back to the compound right now.”
He turns, catching my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I know. But I want to. It’s time.”
I reach up to trace the edge of his scar with my fingertip, the gesture that’s become our private language. He doesn’t flinch from my touch anymore. Instead, he leans into it slightly, eyes closing for just a moment.
“Ready?” I ask softly.
His eyes open. “With you beside me? Yes.”
My heart does something stupid and reckless in my chest. Three weeks with this man and I still haven’t figured out how to hear him say things like that without my whole body responding.
The car slows, turning onto a street lined with people and camera flashes. The venue looms ahead, a historic building with soaring marble columns and grand steps leading to massive oak doors. Light spills from every window, turning the night golden around its edges.
This is real. This is actually happening. I’m about to walk a red carpet in a silk dress with a billionaire who lives on a mountain. A month ago I was eating ramen on someone’s couch and wondering if I could afford bus fare.
“Breathe,” Caleb murmurs, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Just stay close to me.”
The car door opens. Caleb steps out first, turning to offer me his hand. The moment I emerge, camera flashes explode around us. The light is blinding, disorienting, like stepping into the sun after living underground.
“Mr. Asher! Over here!”
“Who’s your date, Mr. Asher?”
“What made you come out of hiding?”
He ignores them all. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me up the steps, past the reporters cordoned off on either side. I feel the weight of a hundred eyes on us, but Caleb moves with such confidence that my own anxiety fades to a low hum instead of a scream.
Inside, a young woman checking names does a double-take when she sees Caleb, her eyes tracing the path of his scar before darting away in embarrassment.
“Mr. Asher,” she says, her voice betraying her surprise. “We’re so honored you could attend.”
He nods once, acknowledging her without engaging, and guides me through grand double doors into the ballroom beyond.
The space takes my breath away.
Soaring ceilings with crystal chandeliers, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, the room already half-full with men in bespoke tuxedos and women dripping in jewels that probably have their own insurance policies.
I have never been in a room like this. I have never been in a building like this.
The closest I’ve come to a gala is the time I went to a potluck at the community center where three different women brought potato salad and one of them cried about it.
The first ripple of recognition moves through the crowd as we enter. Heads turn. Conversations pause. Glasses halt midway to lips.
Caleb meets their stares directly, unflinchingly. I try to do the same, but mostly I’m focused on not tripping in these heels.
“Caleb!” Davis Whitfield approaches, relief evident in his expression, a pretty blonde woman on his arm. “You made it. I wasn’t sure until I actually saw you walk through that door.”
“Davis.” Caleb greets his CFO with a nod that’s almost warm. “Of course I made it. I said I would.”
Davis’s gaze shifts to me. “And Ms. Vance! You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
“Thank you, Davis. And please, call me Nola.”
“Nola,” he repeats, then gestures to the woman beside him. “This is my date, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Caleb Asher and his partner, Nola Vance.”
Davis grins. “I have to say, I’m so pleased you’re working out. After the parade of faces we’ve seen come and go this past year, well... the office betting pool on how long you’d last paid out weeks ago.”
I blink. People were betting on me. Actual money was exchanged over my survival odds. I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified.
“Ignore him,” Caleb says, his voice dry. “Davis thinks he’s funnier than he actually is.”
As Caleb guides me away, I lean close. “Did people really bet on how long I’d last?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Apparently. I fired fourteen assistants in twelve months. You were something of a statistical anomaly from the moment you kicked off your shoes in my office.”
The memory makes me smile despite the nervousness fluttering in my stomach.
That first day feels like a lifetime ago, walking into his fortress with nothing but a yellow dress and desperation.
Now I’m in emerald silk with “Crimson Reign” on my lips and this man’s hand on my back and I still can’t quite believe any of it is real.
Caleb moves through the crowd with strategic precision, selecting specific conversations, specific hands to shake.
I watch, fascinated, as he transforms from the isolated mountain recluse I first met into a commanding public figure who controls every interaction with quiet authority.
Three weeks ago, this man wouldn’t leave his compound.
Now he’s shaking the hand of a senator and discussing policy without breaking a sweat.
The only tell is his left hand, which finds me between every conversation.
My elbow, my wrist, the small of my back. Like he needs to know I’m still there.
Through it all, he keeps me close. When he introduces me, it’s never as “my assistant.” Sometimes it’s simply “Nola Vance.” Other times, it’s “my partner,” the word sending a thrill through me each time, a little electric jolt I should probably be used to by now but am absolutely not.
Between conversations, he leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re doing beautifully,” he murmurs, the praise sending familiar warmth through me.
“Good girl,” he whispers, the words for me alone. Heat floods my cheeks. There are three hundred people in this room and he’s whispering that in my ear like we’re back in his bedroom. The man has no shame. I love it.
Then, louder, as we approach another cluster of guests: “Let me introduce you to the foundation’s board president...”
The lights dim. Conversations fade to murmurs and then to silence as a spotlight finds the podium at the center of the stage.
From my seat at the front table, I have an unobstructed view of where Caleb will soon stand. My hands are clenched in my lap, my nails digging small crescents into my palms. I’m more nervous than he is, which seems unfair since I’m not the one about to give a speech.
The foundation’s executive director approaches the microphone.
“Tonight, we are especially honored to welcome our keynote speaker. Many of you know him as the founder of Asher Security Systems. What fewer know is that he is also the visionary founder of the Foster Children’s Foundation.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the crowd. At our table, Davis catches my eye and gives me a small, knowing nod.
“For eight years, he has funded our work anonymously, creating programs based on what he wished had existed when he himself aged out of foster care. Tonight, for the first time, he has agreed to speak publicly about his personal connection to our mission. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Caleb Asher.”
Applause erupts as Caleb steps into the spotlight.
Under the harsh light, his scar is starkly visible, a pale line bisecting his face from temple to mouth.
He makes no attempt to angle away from the audience, to hide the mark that tells the story he’s about to share.
He just stands there and lets them see him. All of him.
He places a single index card on the podium. A prop. He’s been preparing this speech for weeks, pacing the length of his office, rehearsing it to an audience of me and the mountain view. He knows exactly what he wants to say.
For a long moment, he simply stands there, letting them look. The silence stretches, becoming almost uncomfortable, and I realize that’s exactly his intention. He’s forcing them to see him before he speaks a single word. Demanding it.