I shake my head and press harder on the gas. I should be thinking about the lawsuit. The brand deal. The management meeting I’m ten minutes late for.
Instead, I’m thinking about her.
Her mouth, her hands, the way she kissed me back with this raw, unpracticed intensity that made it feelreal.
Which is a problem.
A massive, brother-code-breaking problem.
Because she’s Liam’s fucking little sister.
Off-limits in flashing neon.
Untouchable.
And I crossed a line I told myself I wouldn’t even go near.
I pull into the driveway of my house—the gates glide open as I roll up the drive, tires whispering over smooth stone. The driveway curves like it was designed for paparazzi shots—wide, dramatic, lined with softly glowing uplights and tall cypress trees that flicker gold in the dusk.
The house comes into view like a scene from a movie.
All clean angles and warm wood, glass walls catching the last of the sun and throwing it back in amber streaks. Not just big—breathtaking. A three-level marvel cut into the hillside, overlooking the city like it owns the skyline. Which, honestly, it kind of does.
It still hits me sometimes. I grew up sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a one-bedroom walk-up with peeling wallpaper and neighborswho fought through the walls. Now? I own six bathrooms, an infinity pool, and a house with a temperature-controlled wine wall I’ve literally never touched.
I park out front, walk up the limestone steps, and scan my fingerprint at the door. It clicks open with a soft chime.
Inside, it’s quiet. Peaceful.
The foyer is flooded with warm light, high ceilings stretching up to floating staircases and open balconies. Polished oak floors gleam beneath a hand-blown glass chandelier.
The scent of cedar and bergamot lingers in the air—subtle, not sterile. It’s what I told the interior designer: make it expensive, but make itfeellike someone lives here.
And it does. I do.
The living room opens up ahead—sunken and sleek, with caramel leather sectionals, plush gray throws, and a massive hearth glowing gold with soft embers on a timer. Jazz hums from hidden speakers—Melody Gardot, if I had to guess. The whole place radiates comfort, and I exhale slowly. This is my sanctuary. My home. Because I made it that way.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panoramic view of L.A.—a glittering sprawl of lights against twilight. In the corner, my favorite piece: a matte black baby grand piano, lit from above by a sculptural pendant like it’s onstage.
I toss my keys into the marble tray by the console, slip off my boots, and let the house wrap around me. No echoes here. Just quiet luxury and the kind of stillness that reminds me how far I’ve come.
I pour a club soda from the built-in bar—three limes, plenty of ice—into a crystal tumbler and step into my office. Sinking into the leather chair, I take a slow sip, letting the chill settle as the video call loads.
With a softchime, the screen flickers to life. Five faces appear in neat little boxes.
Scott—my manager—is dead center, already frowning like I personally ran over his dog. Surrounding him are my PR rep, my brand liaison, my agent, and the poor legal guy who always looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin whenever I speak.
“Ash,” Scott says, nodding once. “Appreciate you showing up.”
I lift my glass. “Wouldn’t miss it. Love these team-building circles.”
No one laughs.
Scott cuts straight to it. “As we all know, three brands have pulled out this week.”
He doesn't even warm me up first. Justbam—right in the teeth.
“Which ones again?” I ask.
