Because whatever is happening here—whatever is circling her—it isn’t finished.
And neither am I.
Chapter 18
His Hands Are Gone. His Presence Isn’t.
Violet
The door clicks shut, and the air in the apartment changes.
Not quieter—heavier. Like something vital just left and took the oxygen with it. Asher doesn’t simply enter a room; he rearranges it, bends the space around him until everything else feels slightly off-balance. Even now, with him gone, his presence presses in from every corner, clinging to the walls, to the floor, and to me.
My hands tremble. I curl them into fists, crushing the Langport brochure until the glossy paper buckles under the strain. I want to scream. To throw it across the room. To let the fury and fear boiling in my chest finally rupture.
Instead, I stay where I am, frozen, staring at the place he stood only moments ago.
I’ve known who Asher Redmont is since Cami told me his name. I dug in quietly, carefully, the way I do everything that matters. Public records. Business profiles. Articles that paint him as clean-cut, brilliant, and untouchable. A billionaire heir with an empire built on acquisitions and influence, photographed in tailored suits beside people whose names mean money, not danger.
By every visible metric, he’s legitimate.
There are rumors, of course. Whispers buried in forums and late-night threads, vague enough to dismiss if you want to. Ties that don’t quite line up. Power that seems too absolute, too controlled. But nothing concrete. Nothing you could prove. Nothing that would justify the way he stood in my kitchen like he owned the space—and me with it.
And yet, that same man just crossed my threshold, invaded my home, and touched me like he had every right.
I hate that he touched me. Hate that my skin still hums where his fingers brushed mine. Hate that my body remembers it in a way my mind doesn’t want to acknowledge. Hate—most of all—that some treacherous part of me wants it to happen again.
But none of that terrifies me the way what he knows does.
How does he know about Zephyra?
The question digs in deep, sharp and relentless, refusing to let go. I haven’t told him. I haven’t told anyone outside of Cami. I’ve guarded it obsessively, built walls around it layer by layer, and yet he looked at me tonight like the secret had been his all along.
And it isn’t just the drug.
He knew I was home. Knew I hadn’t left. Knew I wasn’t answering calls.
My stomach tightens as I replay the conversation, every slip, and every casual drop of information that should have been impossible for him to have. He didn’t guess. He didn’t fish. He stated things with quiet certainty, like facts already confirmed.
Like someone who had been watching.
The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine. I sink into the chair at the table because my legs refuse to hold me anymore, the sudden weight of it all crashing down at once. The brochure lies limp in my lap now, its glossy image of smiling, uniformed students blurring as my vision burns.
Rage and shame twist together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Rage at him—for storming into my life, for standing there with that infuriating mix of accusation and concern, and for acting like he had the right to ask about Ella at all. Shame, because a small, traitorous part of me wanted him to stay. Wanted him to close the distance again. Wanted the grounding weight of his attention instead of the hollow panic clawing through my chest.
Asher looked at me like I’m breaking. Like he sees the fractures I work so hard to hide. And the worst part is—he’s not wrong.
I press my palms to my face, trying to shut out the memory of his voice. Low. Controlled. Dangerous in the way it never needs to raise itself.What happens to Ella if you get caught—or worse?The words echo over and over, each repetition sharpening the guilt that’s lodged under my ribs since Alessandra Moore’s name first flooded the headlines.
I didn’t send Zephyra to that party. I know that. I know it in my bones.
But knowing doesn’t make the weight lift. Alessandra is dead. And if Zephyra was there—whether I meant for it to be or not—I can’t escape the feeling that I built the weapon, and someone else simply pulled the trigger.
Then there’s the last thing he said.
Bring Zephyra into my world.
The phrase rattles loose inside my skull as I force myself to stand, my pulse racing.What the hell does that even mean? A warning? A threat?His world is boardrooms and polished press releases, not underground parties and designer drugs. And yet… the way he said it, the way his gaze never wavered, makes it feel like he all but told me the truth without saying it outright.
