I research Asher Monroe again. The man is a titan, a ruthless businessman who built an empire out of nothing. His reputation precedes him–cold, calculating, utterly devoid of sentiment. The thought of facing him, of having to convince him of a lie makes my stomach churn.
Friday evening arrives with the inevitability of a death sentence. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely apply my eyeliner as my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The clonazepam sits in my medicine cabinet, a silent temptation. I resist. I need to be sharp, I need to be in control. As much as I hate this situation, I refuse to be a drugged puppet. I will face this with my wits about me.
At 6:55 PM, there’s a knock on my door. Not the soft, confident knock from the other night. This is a solid, authoritative knock. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic flutter in my chest. This is it.
I open the door.
West stands there, a vision of effortless power in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that accentuates the breadth of his shoulders and the lean lines of his body. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his jaw sharp, his eyes a piercing blue that seem to see right through me. He looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine, a man born to command.
His gaze sweeps over me, a slow, deliberate appraisal that makes my skin prickle. I brace myself for his critique, for another of his subtle commands.
But instead, his eyes soften just a fraction. A flicker of genuine admiration, or perhaps surprise, crosses his face before it’s quickly masked. “You clean up well, Kinsley,” he says, his voice a low, approving rumble. He holds out his arm, a gesture of old-world chivalry that feels utterly out of place, utterly performative. “Ready to meet the dragon?”
My breath catches. The dragon. A fitting description. I meet his gaze, trying to project a confidence I don’t feel. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
As we walk down the hallway his fingers intertwine with mine, a possessive clasp that feels like a tender gesture. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, sending a thrill through me.
The ride to the restaurant is silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the luxury car. My mind races, trying to anticipate Asher’s questions, trying to remember every detail of the fake story West concocted.
The restaurant is even grander than the one from our first “date.” It’s a private dining room, hushed and opulent with a single, large table set for three. Asher Monroe is already seated, a formidable presence at the head of the table. He’s older than West, but the resemblance is striking; the same sharp features, the same piercing blue eyes, though his are colder, more calculating. He exudes an aura of absolute power, a man who is used to getting his way.
He looks up as we enter, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m being dissected. I force a polite smile, my hand tightening on West’s arm.
West squeezes my hand in return, a silent reassurance. “Asher,” he says, his voice smooth, confident. “This is Kinsley.”
Asher’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He gives a curt nod, his expression unyielding. “Ms. Fischer. It’s a pleasure.” His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of warmth.
“Mr. Monroe,” I reply, my voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic hammering of my heart. “The pleasure is mine.”
The new game has begun, and I am already performing.
Twenty Eight
Kinsley
West pulls out a chair for me, a gesture of practiced chivalry. His hand rests on my shoulder for a fraction of a second too long before he moves to sit beside me, not opposite. The move is strategic, a precise physical alignment. We are a unit. His thigh presses against mine, a constant, searing point of contact that sends a distracting current through my entire body.
A waiter appears, silent and efficient, to take our drink orders. Asher dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. “West has alreadyordered a bottle of the '82 Pétrus. I trust that will be acceptable, Ms. Fischer?”
I have no idea what an '82 Pétrus is, but I can tell from the name, from the way Asher says it, that it’s outrageously expensive. It's a test. “I'm sure it will be lovely,” I say, my voice smooth, betraying none of the frantic panic I feel.
Asher’s eyes, cold and assessing, linger on me. “So,” he begins, forgoing all pretense of small talk. “West tells me you're a nursing student. An ambitious choice. What is it about tending to the sick that appeals to you?”
The question is dismissive, reducing my passion to a mere service role. The defiant part of me, the part that West seems to find so amusing, bristles. I will not be patronized.
“I'm not interested in 'tending,'” I correct him, my voice firm but respectful. “I'm interested in the human body as a complex biological system. I'm fascinated by pathophysiology, by the cascade of molecular events that leads to disease, and the pharmacological interventions that can alter that cascade.” I meet his gaze directly. “I want to understand the 'why' behind the illness, not just manage the symptoms.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Asher’s face. He glances at West, who has a faint, proud smirk on his lips. This was not the answer he was expecting.
“Impressive,” Asher says, the word clipped, grudging. “A scientific mind. And your family? Are they in the medical field?”
This is the curveball. My family. The one piece of my life that West couldn't possibly know about—the one area where I might have some leverage. But lying to a man like this, who West already said does “thorough research,” would be suicide. The truth, as shocking as it might be, is my only shield.
“No,” I say calmly. “My father is John Fischer.”
Asher’s eyes narrow with a flicker of recognition. “Founder of Cygnus Technologies?”
“The same,” I confirm. “And my mother is Eleanor Fischer. She chairs the board for the Children's Literacy Fund.”
