His eyes open. “With you beside me? Yes.”
My heart does something stupid and reckless in my chest. Three weeks with this man and I still haven’t figured out how to hear him say things like that without my whole body responding.
The car slows,turning onto a street lined with people and camera flashes. The venue looms ahead, a historic building with soaring marble columns and grand steps leading to massive oak doors. Light spills from every window, turning the night golden around its edges.
This is real. This is actually happening. I’m about to walk a red carpet in a silk dress with a billionaire who lives on amountain. A month ago I was eating ramen on someone’s couch and wondering if I could afford bus fare.
“Breathe,” Caleb murmurs, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Just stay close to me.”
The car door opens. Caleb steps out first, turning to offer me his hand. The moment I emerge, camera flashes explode around us. The light is blinding, disorienting, like stepping into the sun after living underground.
“Mr. Asher! Over here!”
“Who’s your date, Mr. Asher?”
“What made you come out of hiding?”
He ignores them all. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me up the steps, past the reporters cordoned off on either side. I feel the weight of a hundred eyes on us, but Caleb moves with such confidence that my own anxiety fades to a low hum instead of a scream.
Inside, a young woman checking names does a double-take when she sees Caleb, her eyes tracing the path of his scar before darting away in embarrassment.
“Mr. Asher,” she says, her voice betraying her surprise. “We’re so honored you could attend.”
He nods once, acknowledging her without engaging, and guides me through grand double doors into the ballroom beyond.
The space takes my breath away.
Soaring ceilings with crystal chandeliers, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, the room already half-full with men in bespoke tuxedos and women dripping in jewels that probably have their own insurance policies. I have never been in a room like this. I have never been in a building like this. The closest I’ve come to a gala is the time I went to a potluck at the community center where three different women brought potato salad and one of them cried about it.
The first ripple of recognition moves through the crowd as we enter. Heads turn. Conversations pause. Glasses halt midway to lips.
Caleb meets their stares directly, unflinchingly. I try to do the same, but mostly I’m focused on not tripping in these heels.
“Caleb!” Davis Whitfield approaches, relief evident in his expression, a pretty blonde woman on his arm. “You made it. I wasn’t sure until I actually saw you walk through that door.”
“Davis.” Caleb greets his CFO with a nod that’s almost warm. “Of course I made it. I said I would.”
Davis’s gaze shifts to me. “And Ms. Vance! You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
“Thank you, Davis. And please, call me Nola.”
“Nola,” he repeats, then gestures to the woman beside him. “This is my date, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Caleb Asher and his partner, Nola Vance.”
Davis grins. “I have to say, I’m so pleased you’re working out. After the parade of faces we’ve seen come and go this past year, well... the office betting pool on how long you’d last paid out weeks ago.”
I blink. People were betting on me. Actual money was exchanged over my survival odds. I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified.
“Ignore him,” Caleb says, his voice dry. “Davis thinks he’s funnier than he actually is.”
As Caleb guides me away, I lean close. “Did people really bet on how long I’d last?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Apparently. I fired fourteen assistants in twelve months. You were something of a statistical anomaly from the moment you kicked off your shoes in my office.”
The memory makes me smile despite the nervousness fluttering in my stomach. That first day feels like a lifetime ago,walking into his fortress with nothing but a yellow dress and desperation. Now I’m in emerald silk with “Crimson Reign” on my lips and this man’s hand on my back and I still can’t quite believe any of it is real.
Caleb moves through the crowd with strategic precision, selecting specific conversations, specific hands to shake. I watch, fascinated, as he transforms from the isolated mountain recluse I first met into a commanding public figure who controls every interaction with quiet authority. Three weeks ago, this man wouldn’t leave his compound. Now he’s shaking the hand of a senator and discussing policy without breaking a sweat. The only tell is his left hand, which finds me between every conversation. My elbow, my wrist, the small of my back. Like he needs to know I’m still there.
Through it all, he keeps me close. When he introduces me, it’s never as “my assistant.” Sometimes it’s simply “Nola Vance.” Other times, it’s “my partner,” the word sending a thrill through me each time, a little electric jolt I should probably be used to by now but am absolutely not.
