Chapter 1 #7
I can picture him pacing slowly, looking over contracts and barking orders.
If he were an animal, he'd be a shark. If he were a sound, he'd be a rocket launching.
For some reason, I keep holding the frame, staring at it a little longer.
His hand hangs at his side, clenched into a fist, as though he's constantly trying to keep the beast inside him under control.
A strange urge comes from nowhere to place my hand against the back of his neck and massage away the tension.
To show the machine it can break. It can stop.
The world will keep spinning. My index hesitantly traces the outline of his suit jacket, up to his neck, imagining giving him a little relief.
A little comfort. Why do I have the feeling he really needs it?
“See anything you like?” A rough voice sounds behind me, and I jerk in surprise, dropping the frame onto the floor.
Glass shattering into dozens of sharp fragments.
There's a man—no. It’s the man from the picture.
Standing in the doorway, examining me. Cursing every word I know internally, I drop to my knees, desperately trying to clean up my mess.
In months, I haven't made a single mistake.
The one time I'm being observed, I break a frame.
I gather the shards as quickly as I can, but some sink into my palm, slicing through my skin.
Red blooms beneath the surface before a thin crimson line spills across my hand.
Without a word, a hand closes around my wrist and lifts me to my feet. His eyes travel to the cut in my palm. Time stops as his gaze settles over me.
I'm sorry, I keep saying in silence.
Please don't fire me.
Tristan
I stare at the marble floor as my mother speaks to the young woman she wants me to dance with.
Leila, perhaps, or is it Lyla? I can't even remember now, with the noise and bright lights assaulting my senses.
I wish I could rip off my bow tie and go for a run.
On the docks, or even through the city. Rain pours outside, droplets racing down the windows.
I could still run after the party, throw on a sweater.
To hell with the rain. There's only so much you can do between four walls.
And as much as I thrive on running my empire, sometimes I just...
I just want to destroy and unleash all the pent-up rage I have to fold neatly into my pocket every single day.
We can't have a CEO ripping people's heads off, can we?
That wouldn't look good for the Ashford brand.
I'm in desperate need of a fight. The last one was two weeks ago, in an underground MMA cage on the other side of the city, under a name no one could ever trace back to me.
No tailored suits. No billion-dollar empire.
Just blood and bruises. I dislocated my opponent's shoulder after four minutes.
I would've kept going, but the referee called it.
Waiting another ten days until the next fight night is going to feel longer than counting grains of sand in the Sahara.
I crack my neck when I sense their gazes fall on me.
What was Mother saying again?
Something about boats and Croatia, I believe.
“Tristan?” my mother calls effortlessly, drawing my attention back to her.
Her long, dyed-black hair is styled in waves, and her piercing dark gaze leaves no one unscathed.
Mother went all in on cosmetic procedures over the past five years.
I wonder if my father would have even noticed.
Her filled lips, with their clinical symmetry, are painted dark red.
Her eyes are lined in charcoal. Her velvet gown is a deep green.
A mobster's wife through and through, which suited my father perfectly.
A ruthless businessman, and an even worse criminal.
It took me five years to clean up his reign of violence and sever our ties to every illegal branch of the business.
When I took over the reins, the company wasn't thriving the way it needed to.
I diversified our activities, made massive cuts, cleaned up our family name, and put Ashford Holdings back on track.
Everything he did, I tried to approach differently.
The only thing I kept from the past was his vault, hidden behind the sailing photograph in my office.
Dirt of every kind, on every important name in this city.
Useful leverage in times of need. Violence ended with me, his fists and insults bouncing off the armor I'd forged for myself.
Instead of making our competitors and enemies walk around looking over their shoulders, I made sure to outwit them and outwork them in every possible way.
“I'm parched,” my mother says. I give them a clipped nod before disappearing toward the bar.
“White wine,” I grunt, then correct, “And whiskey. Make it a double.” I flex my hand, resting my forearm on the polished counter.
The Westhaven conservatory has gone all out tonight.
Mother has outdone herself in choosing this place.
We're standing inside a giant greenhouse of glass and steel, exotic plants hanging everywhere between silver trays of canapés and elaborate hors d'oeuvres.
A bar has been installed along the back wall, rows of liquor bottles reflected endlessly in the mirrors behind it, my own reflection mocking me in return.
Why did I even accept this invitation? Do I always have to look the part?
Nate would do it so much better with his natural charm, if only he weren't a single dad signing bedtime stories to Maddie at home.
A smile tugs at my lips as I think about my six-year-old niece.
Even mute, she's still the brightest and most remarkable little mind I know.
Better me here than him. He's got better things to do.
Much more important than sipping whiskey in a tuxedo while dreading the next time our mother approaches me with one of her so-called gems. The only reason I tolerate it is because of the hint of hope I still catch in the creases around her eyes whenever she imagines me settling down one day.
When Father passed away five years ago, she faded into a ghost. No longer truly here with us.
Haunting the family home like a memory. Long gone was my witty mother, her sharp retorts ready to slip from her tongue at every opportunity, sparing no one.
She remained trapped in that state for two years until a doctor finally put her on medication.
It took another year, and an ongoing course of therapy, for her to become the woman she is today.
Back to herself. Or at least a new version of her.
I can still see the cracks in her facade.
Her pain slipping through whenever her mask falls away for the briefest second.
And every time it does, I want to glue her back together.
Mend her wounds. But I'm guessing, even with absolutely no experience in this field, that losing the love of your life is an endless war.
Even if that said love never truly loved you back.
How does one handle this sorrow? I doubt it'll ever truly leave her.
“Does Tristan Ashford ever rest?” A young woman traces circles around the rim of her glass just as the bartender places my whiskey and my mother's glass of white wine in front of me.
She's in her twenties, sleek blonde hair straight out of a commercial, thin arms, and a black strapless gown.
Actress perhaps or a model. Who cares? I won't be going home with her anyway. I never do. Women like her, as beautiful as they are, nice, and sometimes even almost funny, just don’t do it for me.
I understand, from a societal standpoint, that they're beautiful.
But it affects me about as much as staring at a brick wall.
I keep searching for their pulse. And I just…
can't find it. All I ever find is desperation—performative outgoingness.
I read them the same way I read contracts, their tightening jaws and idle hair-twirling revealing far more than their words ever could.
Help me.
Marry me.
My money and my status took away any chance of sincerity I could ever have.
I'll never know their true intentions, and even when they seem genuine, there's always a point where the facade cracks and I catch a glimpse of their agenda.
Perhaps more visibility. More fame. More money.
They don't like me; they just want to be saved, and I'm no savior.
Who would want that kind of relationship?
I'd rather play chess on my own than with a partner willing to bleed me dry for a front-page cover.
Nate had luck, but it ran out, and his wife died, leaving him to raise Maddie on his own. Even the lucky ones are cursed. I wouldn't be surprised if it ran in the family. A curse. Money and misery, saying I do on the altar of our name.
“Does anyone ever?” I reply, swirling the amber liquor in my hand, eyes fixed on the glass.
A forced giggle escapes her as she turns slightly toward me, stepping closer until the hem of her gown brushes against my leather shoes.
In another life, I'd banter with whoever this woman is, hold her hand, and make promises I could keep.
But we only get one life, and mine wasn't cut out for that sort of thing.
A sense of danger courses through me as she closes the distance, the air shifting, dragging the oxygen out of the room.
She sets her drink beside mine, and I notice a ring on her finger bearing a thick letter V pressed into the gold. Haven't I said I could smell fear?
“You look handsome tonight, um, Mr. Ashford.” She tries to wrap herself in confidence, but her voice refuses to cooperate, leaving cracks all the way through.