My reflection stares back—hard eyes, rigid posture, the scar that splits my face like a lightning strike across stone. The permanent reminder of why I built these walls, why I stay behind them. Why I don’t do galas or crowds or anything that involves standing in a room full of strangers who can see what was done to me.
“Fuck.” The word escapes on a harsh exhale, fogging the glass. I press my forehead against the cool surface, closing my eyes.
This has to stop. I have to stop.
But all I can think about is Nola. The way she sat at dinner last night in that yellow dress, her chin high like she was doing me a favor by being there. The way she talked about losing everything—her grandmother, the farm, her home—without a trace of self-pity. The way she looked at me and didn’t flinch from what she saw.
I need to know why.
Before I finish the thought, I’m moving toward the door. Down the corridor. Along the hallway that leads to the east wing.
The hallway to her room stretches before me, stark and empty under the recessed lighting. Security cameras track my movement, silent witnesses to my weakness. To my surrender to this compulsion I can’t seem to fight.
I pause outside her door.
I could turn around. Could go back to my office, to my lonely routine, to the safe isolation I’ve built for myself. Ishouldturn around.
Instead, I knock.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then I hear soft footsteps approaching the door.
When it opens, all the air rushes out of my lungs.
Nola stands before me in a cotton nightgown, the material worn almost translucent in places. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the light from behind her like a halo.
“Mr. Asher.” Her voice holds surprise but no fear. No anger either, despite how I treated her earlier. “Is everything okay?”
Everything about this moment feels surreal.
Me standing outside her door at night, her in that nightgown, me without any rational explanation for my presence. The air between us seems charged with electricity, with potential energy just waiting for a spark.
No, baby girl, everything is most definitely not okay.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” I snarl.
She blinks at me in confusion. “Should I be?”
“Everyone else is.”
“So?”
I glare at her. “So you’re not. Why?”
Nola studies me for a long moment, her expression open and thoughtful. Finally, she says, “You haven’t given me a reason to be afraid.”
“Sure, I have,” I say, gesturing to the compound around us. “Just look at this place. The security, the isolation, the cameras everywhere.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“It’s not scary,” she says quietly, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s sad.”
Something cracks inside my chest.
I reach for her before I realize I’m going to move, my hands framing her face. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my palms, her eyes widening in surprise but not fear.
Then I’m kissing her.
My mouth claims her with hunger that’s been building since the moment she walked through my door yesterday. She makes a small sound against my lips, and then she kisses me back, her hands coming up to grip my wrists, not pushing me away but holding me in place. She tastes like toothpaste and something sweeter beneath, something uniquely her.
