He leads me downstairs, where Wallace waits for us outside.
“My family can be…difficult,” he says, his tone tight. “But you’ll be fine. Just follow my lead, and if you need something or you're uncomfortable, I want you to squeeze my hand, like this.” He reaches for my hand, taking it into his own and squeezing twice quickly. “That will be our sign.”
I nod quickly, my anxiety spiking. “Okay.”
Asher studies me for a minute, and then he unclicks his seatbelt and slides closer to me, one arm moving to the door on the other side of me so he’s caging me in. “Tell me, Miss Morgan, what are you thinking?”
I swallow, whispering, “I’m nervous.”
“Close your eyes.” He’s using that stern voice again, the one that does something to my brain, and I listen, closing them immediately. “Good girl. Now, take a deep breath.”
I inhale deeply, releasing it slowly through my mouth.
“Again,” he demands, and again, I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Good. Now, I want you to focus on the feeling of my hand in yours.” He squeezes my hand, and I memorize the feeling of his skin, not baby smooth, but not rough either. When he squeezes it, it’s firm but not painful. “Do you feel safe right now, Miss Morgan?”
“Yes.” The answer is instant, coming from somewhere inside of me that doesn’t need to overthink every little thing.
“That’s good. Whenever you feel nervous, I want you to come back to this moment, take a deep breath, and think about the feeling of your hand in mine. Ground yourself in this feeling. And then come back to me. I’ll be with you the entire time. Understood?”
I nod.
“Answer out loud.”
“Yes,” I say softly.
“Good girl.” Each time he says those words, they wash over me, sending a tingle throughout my body.
“Open your eyes,” he tells me, and when I do, he’s watching me intently.
Whatever kind of sorcery he’s practicing is working, though. Already, the anxiety has dwindled. “Thank you,” I whisper, and in return, he squeezes my palm.
Ten minutes later, the elevator opens directly into the foyer, and my breath catches. Marble stretches endlessly beneath my feet, polished to mirror perfection. A double staircase curves up both sides like something from a movie, and crystal chandeliers cast warm light over oil paintings that probably belong in museums.
And I thought Asher's place was enormous, but this makes his penthouse look small.
"Jesus," I mutter, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth.
If it wasn't clear to me before, it is now.
The Caines are rich.
Not just rich.
Filthyfucking rich.
Richer than I could have ever imagined.
Everything screamsmoney. Cream walls, gold accents, furniture that looks like it was carved by European masters. Even the silence feels expensive here, thick and oppressive. My heels click against the marble, each step echoing like an announcement of my inadequacy.
"Breathe," Asher murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back.
But how do you breathe when the very air feels too refined for your lungs?
Growing up, money wasn't nagging beneath the surface of everything. Not the way it is now for me. My parents always had food on the table, we had new clothes in our closets, toys to play with, and school supplies in our backpacks. We weren't rich, by any means; we couldn't have everything we asked for, and my father made sure to instill in us the value of a dollar at a youngage. Weekly allowances taught me how to save for the things I wanted. Our farm did well. And even though we had one busy season, there was work year-round, and we never went without.
But it wasnothinglike this.
A woman emerges from what must be the living room, and I know immediately this is Celeste Caine from the images Kacey and I saw online. Wellness guru and face of Celestia, a brand of self-care items ranging from skincare to yoga mats to clothing. She has a cult-like following obsessed with her every word and yoga studios around the world where people complete her "Celestia Signature Flow" in 98 degree rooms as if they're worshipping her.
