As dangerous as it is, I'm falling for him all over again.
The next few days are…interesting. His LA office is a fortress—two stories of glass, steel, and immaculate concrete. The entire corner suite is made of floor-to-ceiling windows, with the sun bleaching everything it touches. It should feel like being on display, but the truth is, no one looks up. Everyone in this city is too busy selling their own reflection to care about anyone else's.
Asher stalks the hallways in black and white. His staff—actual paid, grown-up professionals—scatter at the sound of his footsteps. No one makes eye contact. The only exceptions arethe handful of people who remember the company before Asher took it over. They're the only ones he ever acknowledges by name.
Our routine is all business, at least in the building. Meetings, calls, endless email threads, all conducted at the kind of breakneck speed that makes me wonder if everyone else is moving in slow motion.
But something is different. Maybe it's the ocean air, maybe it's the afterglow of finally letting himself have something soft, or maybe he's just tired, but Asher actually answers my questions now. Sometimes he even anticipates them, explaining his logic before I can challenge it. He never admits it, but he's teaching me. Training me. The unspoken implication is that when this is over, I'll know enough to walk away from him and build something of my own.
I almost believe that's what he wants…until I catch him watching me in the reflection of the windows, like he's memorizing every second. Like he knows the countdown is already on, and he's trying to sear the memory into his bones before it all goes to hell. Like he's already grieving the end.
During a meeting with half of the agents assigned to the LA office on day four, I realize just how much he's changing. Just how human he truly is.
They're hammering out details on who from the showcase will be offered representation, the whole point of this trip, and everyone is tense. I'm taking notes, but mostly watching Asher dismantle their arguments for one actor or another, piece by piece.
His phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. He stands without a word, his mouth set in a grim line, and steps into the hall.
The meeting goes on, but I don't hear a word. I watch through the glass as Asher paces the hall outside, his jaw clenched. Heruns a hand through his hair, mutters something, and then slams his fist against the wall. Not enough to break the glass, but enough that the entire window shivers.
The others notice. They trade looks, and one of the junior agents tries to crack a joke, "Guess Blackstock's not happy," but no one laughs.
I excuse myself on the pretense of needing water and follow him down the hallway. I find him in his office at the end, sitting at the desk that's all polished obsidian and chrome. His head is in his hands, the phone discarded on the desk. He doesn't look up until I close the door behind me.
For a second, I think he's going to yell at me, but instead he just leans back in the chair, closing his eyes.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He waits a long time before answering. When he does, his voice is flat. "The European merger's dead. They just doubled the asking price for the agency. Thomas thinks he can squeeze it out of us. I should have seen it coming."
I absorb this, waiting for the anger. Instead, I get silence.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at me. "I'm not my uncle," he says, like it's a confession. "He would have gotten this done. He would have made them beg to be bought out, and he'd have done it with a fucking smile on his face."
I blink, stunned. I don't think I've ever heard him say a single negative word about himself, not once.
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the exhaustion, the doubt, the bone-deep certainty that he's doomed to disappoint.
"I promised him I'd keep it together," he says. "I promised I'd never let anyone fuck with his company. I owe him that for raising me, for leaving me everything, when he didn't have to do it."
I sit down in the chair opposite, trying to process his confession. "You can't control everything," I say.
He snorts, the sound bitter. "Haven't you heard? I'm supposed to. That's the fucking point of being in charge. I'm supposed to have the goddamn answers, to anticipate when shit is about to go sideways."
I cross the distance between us and kneel in front of his chair. "You're allowed to miss things, Asher. You're human."
He laughs, but it's not funny. "I stopped being human a long time ago. The only thing I'm good at is breaking people."
I touch his knee gently, and he stares at my hand like it's a bomb about to go off.
"You're not just that," I say. "You care. Even when you pretend not to."
He shakes his head, but I don't let go. I climb into his lap, straddling him in his fucking glass office where anyone could walk by, and kiss him hard, not waiting for permission.
He freezes at first, shocked, but then he fists his hands in my hair and kisses me back with a ferocity that nearly knocks me off his lap.
I grind down, feeling him harden beneath me. He's so tense it's like he's about to shatter. Maybe he is. Maybe he's been carrying so much for so long that he just can't do it anymore.
"Let me," I whisper.
