Eight years ago, I left Berkeley half-educated and full of fear. The world didn’t just kick me—it laughed when I stayed down.
Now I’m finishing what I started. I have the undergrad degree I once thought I’d lost forever. I’m deep into my doctorate. I spend the week knee-deep in molecular neurorepair models and advanced cell pathway simulations.
And I’m good at it.
The air shifts before he knocks.
I feel him—the weight of him. Like gravity warped by memory.
“Asher,” I say without looking up.
The door opens anyway. He steps inside, dressed in black, and quiet as always now. No entourage. No guards. Just the man who once ran a city—and now shares my bed, my coffee, and my forever.
He comes up behind me, presses a kiss to my temple, and sets a thick envelope on my desk.
“What is it this time?” I ask, smirking. “Another shell company in my name? Should I check it for arsenic?”
“Partnership agreement,” he says. “You already run the place. Might as well own half.”
I blink. “And the other half?”
He shrugs. “Technically still mine. Realistically? Yours.”
I raise a brow. “Did hell freeze over?”
He doesn’t smile—but there’s that flicker in his eyes. The one I know. The one that only shows up when it’s just us.
I flip through the documents. Clean. Thorough. No hidden clauses. There’s a second folder tucked underneath. Smaller. Personal.
“What’s this?”
“Trust fund,” he says. “For Ella.”
I freeze.
“She’s done at Langport,” he continues. “Top of her class. She deserves not to sell her soul for grad school.”
My throat tightens. “You already got her out. Paid for everything. You—”
“I did that for you,” he interrupts gently. “This is for her.”
We don’t speak for a moment.
When I look up, he’s watching me the way he always does when he thinks I’m not paying attention—like I’m gravity now. Like I’m the center.
He slides his fingers along my wrist, grounding me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I lean into his hand. “You’re here.”
His mouth is on mine a second later—hot, hungry, and familiar. He pushes me back against the desk, firm but careful. Like he knows exactly how far he can go before I unravel.
My breath catches when his thigh slips between mine.
“You know what I want,” he murmurs against my neck. “And you know how fast I can make it happen. Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I grip his collar and pull him closer.
He lifts me onto the desk in one smooth motion, kisses trailing down my jaw as his fingers slide beneath my skirt. I gasp—already wet, and he knows it.
