They asked about the Ashworth Lingerie winter launch. Complimented my dress. Praised the companyIhad kept running while my husband was “away.”
I nodded when appropriate. Smiled when expected.
But my mind wasn’t in the room.
“Mrs. Ashworth!” someone called behind me.
I turned and greeted them. Alastair chimed in when necessary, polished and rehearsed, as if reading from a script I’d written.
A hush suddenly rippled through the ballroom. The night’s host stepped onto the stage, tapping the mic with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. Tonight, we officially welcome the next generation of Esmé leadership.”
Alastair straightened. His parents lifted their heads. Investors leaned forward. The anticipation was thick enough to eat with a spoon.
I took a slow sip of champagne.
“And now,” the host continued, “please welcome the new principal of Esmé Group—”
The side doors opened.
I choked.
I couldn’t breathe. Fight or flight kicked in. It took everything in me not to run.
Julian stepped into the light.
My lungs seized, the oxygen in the room turning to lead. Suddenly, I wasn’t in a ballroom—I was back in the claustrophobic heat of his bedroom. Violent flashes of our nights together flooded my vision, his weight on top of me, my legs draped over his shoulders, the way my hand curled around his throat, making him fight for air and release.
He wasn’t the twenty-five-year-old recent grad I thought he was.
He was the heir to a multibillion-dollar empire.
A prince I had treated like a human dildo.
He talked for maybe fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t tell you a word of what he said.
Next thing I knew, he was walking toward us.
Alastair, oblivious to the history unfolding beside him, pushed me forward with a proprietary hand on my lower back.
“Mr. Hale, isn’t it? Alastair Ashworth. And my wife, Elara. We’re excited about the Ashworth–Esmé potential.”
Julian’s eyes found mine—and didn’t leave. They were burning.
He was angrier than he’d been the night I left. The rage radiated off him.
“Alastair,” Julian drawled. “You’re the son. I’ve heard quite a bit about you and your family.”
He didn’t offer his hand. Just glanced at Alastair, then back at me. The tension thickened like syrup.
“Good, then you know we’re serious about being partners,” Alastair said, trying to sound jovial after being insulted, with his fake ass.
“We have an excellent reputation. And my wife here runs a tight ship.”
Julian took a long, slow sip of his champagne.
“I’m afraid I’m not interested in your partnership, Ashworth.”
