Chapter Nineteen
Brielle
There are photographers crawling all over the street outside of Asher's building, but I don't pause when they start shouting questions at me.
I don't pause for security in the lobby either.
Leah, the receptionist, tries to use her body to block me, I bulldoze through her, too determined to be slowed now.
There's a commotion behind me as security tries to grab a phone to call up and warn Asher that I'm coming. I stab the button for his floor without waiting around to hear what they have to say. Frankly, I don't care if he knows I'm coming or not.
A woman I've never seen before is waiting outside the elevator on his floor.
"You can't go in," she squeaks, trying to jump in front of me.
"Watch me," I growl, stomping past her without slowing.
She mutters something under her breath, hurrying after me. I ignore her protests and slam his office door open so hard the handle gouges into the wall behind it.
Six heads swivel at once.
Aside from a brief glimpse through the peephole, I haven't truly seen Asher in weeks, not since I told him to crawl.
I don't know what I expect to find, but he's perfectly composed in a charcoal suit, his sleeves rolled up just so, his forearms braced on the edge of his desk.
I know him well enough to see behind the mask, though.
His eyes are dark, like he hasn't been sleeping, his face pale.
And there's a tremor in his hand he can't hide, not even by bracing it against the desk.
Everyone seated across from him has the same haunted, desperate look in their eyes. I can't tell if they're here for a hostile takeover or an intervention.
No one moves. No one breathes.
He's the only one who meets my eyes, not even blinking. He isn't surprised to see me, though. Not really.
"If you want to keep your fucking job, get your hands off her now," he snarls at the woman clutching my arm like she thinks she can stop me if she just tries hard enough.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Blackstock," she says, mortified, dropping my arm like it's a bomb.
I walk the gauntlet, not sparing a single glance at his executives. They don't matter. They aren't why I'm here.
Asher just stands there as I approach, like his feet are rooted to the spot, his expression blank. It's like he's running on autopilot, doing what's expected of him. But there's a tightness in his jaw that gives away the truth—he's terrified of what I've come to say.
I plant my fists on his desk, staring him down. "You're a fucking asshole," I say, loud enough for the echo to bounce off every surface in the room.
A woman in a navy suit gasps softly, like she can't believe anyone would dare speak to him like that.
Asher doesn't even flinch. "I know," he says, his voice soft, almost apologetic. "But this asshole loves you."
The room goes silent. Every single person looks from him to me and back again.
There's a clatter as someone drops their pen.
Another exec slides their notepad off the edge of the desk.
The woman in the navy suit actually squirms in her seat.
It's like they're all recalibrating their worldview, trying to figure out who the man in front of them is now that they've realized he's human, with human emotions.
"Can we have the room?" he asks, not looking away from me.
They scramble for the door without hesitation. One man nearly trips over his own briefcase. The last one out closes the door with a soft, terrified click.
We're alone.
I don't wait. I step around the desk and shove him hard, both hands flat against his chest. He stumbles back, not because I'm strong, but because he lets me.
His face is blank, but his hands flex at his sides, like he's resisting the urge to touch me.
"You can't do that!" I spit. "You don't get to just say shit like that, not after what you did."
His mouth quirks, but it's not a smile. "What would you like me to say instead?"
"I'd like you to choke on it," I snap. "I'd like you to feel even a fraction of the pain you've put me through."
He's so still, I wonder if he's even breathing.
"You broke me," I say, my voice rising. "You tormented me, you blackmailed me, you humiliated me." I tick them off on my fingers, my hands trembling.
He finally moves, just a single, shuddering exhale. "I know."
"You don't know. You can't possibly know," I say, slamming my palms into his chest again, pushing him.
Hitting him. Railing against him like that'll make him feel even an ounce of what I have.
"You make me hate myself every time I think about you.
But I still can't stop thinking about you.
" My voice cracks, misery pouring through me.
"Why can't I stop loving you when you break me every chance you get? "
He lets me push him until his back hits the edge of the desk.
His knuckles are white where they grip the side, like he's using it as a prop to keep himself on his feet.
For a second, I see behind the mask to the ruined man that lives beneath his skin.
To the broken man who doesn't even know how to love himself.
"You know why you can't stop," he rasps. "You know, princess."
I shake my head, defiant, but my voice trembles, betraying me. "I want to hate you. I should hate you."
"I've never wanted to hate you," he says, his voice is so quiet, I almost miss it. "You've been the only thing I've thought about since the day we met."
My hands are balled into fists at my sides, but I'm shaking too much to hit him again. "You said you'd set me free. That you'd let me go after our agreement ended."
He closes his eyes for a beat and then opens them, fixating on me. "I know I did," he says. "But I can't let you go. I fucking can't."
His honesty is worse than any lie he's ever told me. It's naked and ugly and real. It's everything I want and everything I hate.
The thing inside my chest twists, alive and starving. "I hate what you've done to me," I whisper. "I hate it so fucking much."
"I hate myself for it," he says. "Every goddamn day, I hate myself for it, Brielle."
He means it. Somehow, knowing he feels the same pain only makes it worse.
Knowing he's as wrecked as I am, and that all of this—the violence, the hunger, the self-destruction, and the pain—was never about hurting me makes it worse.
It was always about him trying to hurt himself, like if he could just make me hate him enough, he'd finally, finally be punished enough.
I don't think he realized that the longer he kept his secret, the more he poisoned the well. He couldn't punish himself enough or make me hate him enough, not when he was still hiding the truth, not when it was slowly eating at him, day after day after day.
He reaches up, slow and careful, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand is trembling, just like mine.
I want to slap him, or kiss him, or run. Instead, I just stand there, vibrating with everything I can't say.
He presses his forehead to mine, and I let him. Just for a second.
"I love you," he says. It sounds like a confession, a curse, and a prayer at once.
I close my eyes, but all I can see is the night we crashed, the way he looked at me before the world ended, with so much terror in his gaze. And I see the way he looks at me now, like I'm the only thing left worth saving.
"Why can't you let me go?" I ask.
He laughs, but it's a broken sound. "Why can't you hate me?"
I don't answer. We both already know. Maybe the answer is the same for both of us.
He steps back, runs a shaking hand through his hair, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone.
There's a vulnerability to his movements that's entirely new. There's no arrogance, no predatory focus. He's nervous, maybe even scared. The phone is a shield he's not sure how to use.
He unlocks it, opens an app, then hands it to me.
I stare at the screen, expecting a text, or a note, or maybe a playlist. Instead, it's a video feed.
Of me.
The footage is from my apartment. The timestamp says it's from a little over months ago, right before I went to work for him. It's me, curled up on my couch, reading a battered paperback.
There are other feeds, too—one from the kitchen, another from my bedroom, another from the hallway outside my door.
I scroll through them, my entire body numb. Every room, every angle, every moment has been catalogued, archived, and made available at a touch.
He's been watching me.
I want to be furious, but I can't feel anything.
"How long?" I ask, not recognizing my own voice.
He doesn't flinch. "Since the day you were released from the hospital after the accident."
My mouth is dry. "That was five years ago, Asher."
He meets my gaze, unblinking. "Five years, four months, eighteen days."
He says it like he's been counting down the seconds, like he's measured every heartbeat by the distance between us and that awful fucking night.
I set the phone down on the desk, gently. "You're insane."
He nods, just once. "Probably."
"Why?" The question is painful, torn out of me by something I don't even want to examine.
He leans against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. "Because I needed to know you were okay. Because I couldn't sleep unless I saw you breathing. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you dying in my arms, and the only way I could function was by ensuring I never let it happen again."
His voice breaks on the last word, and for the first time, I realize this is his confession. This is the penance he's been waiting years to offer me. He watched me because the thought of losing me again tormented him.
There aren't enough tears in the world to cry that realization out.
"I've loved you even longer, princess," he says.
I try to process, but my brain is fried. The timeline, the intention, the sheer scale of his obsession—it's too much. I can't even be angry, because it's just another confirmation of what I already knew…he's never been able to let me go. Not for a second.