Page 14 of Defending What's Mine

His gaze shifts to the window where lanterns flicker along the resort’s courtyard. “Eventually I’d like acreage, too. Maybe teach self-defense to local kids, offer pro-bono security to shelters.” Then he glances back, eyes earnest. “But rescue ranch? I’d volunteer to muck stalls if you hired me.”

Warmth unfurls in my chest—the sweet, terrifying warmth of possibility. The idea of Asher in faded jeans hammering fence posts beside me is intoxicating in a way no gala champagne has ever been.

He clears his throat gently. “Is marrying Wade something you want at all?”

The question’s a scalpel, slicing through any lingering illusions. I bark a laugh. “Absolutely not. I want… choice. Adventure. Love that doesn’t come with a board vote attached.”

He nods, expression unreadable yet soft. “Then we’ll make sure you have that.”

My breath catches. We. Not you. Not I. We.

Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—alive with possibilities instead of pressure. The bartender flicks the lights a tad lower as the jazz trio packs up, and suddenly the bar feels smaller, more intimate, as though the universe drew curtains around our table.

I finish my wine, set the glass down with a soft click. “Thank you. For tonight.”

“For what part?” Asher’s voice is velvet and gravel all at once.

“For questioning me like I’m more than a pawn.” I meet his gaze. “For listening. For drinking soda water instead of alcohol. And for instilling fear in Wade without even raising your voice.”

His lips curve into an almost-smile. “That was just posture.”

“It worked.” I stand, smoothing my dress. “Ready to head up?”

He rises, placing a tip under his untouched coaster. “We should tell my parents about what Wade said this afternoon. I haven’t had time to discuss it with them yet.”

Asher nods. “Affirmative.”

As we leave the bar, his hand hovers near the small of my back—not touching, just near enough that if the world tilts wrong, I won’t fall. And for the first time since childhood, the path in front of me feels like mine to choose.

7

Asher

I lean against the wall in the sitting room, arms crossed, my eyes flicking between Charlotte and her parents. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Charlotte’s sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her father paces the length of their room, while her mother perches beside Charlotte, looking worried but trying to play the composed matriarch.

“So,” I start, breaking the silence. “We’re all on the same page that Wade is a threat, right?”

Charlotte’s father, Charles Lane, stops pacing and looks at me, his expression pinched. “He’s not just a threat, Mr. Hawke. He’s a menace. If what Charlotte says is true?—”

“It is,” Charlotte interrupts, her voice sharp and firm. “He threatened to destroy your company if I don’t go through with this ridiculous idea of marrying him.”

Her mother gasps softly, clutching her pearls—literally. “What do we do?”

Charlotte gives her a look. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just do it. Rip the bandaid off and marry him.”

Yeah, that fucking shit ain’t happening.

“No,” I say way too quickly.

Charlotte stands up, walking toward her father. “Maybe I should. The company would be safe. You’d be happy. Everyone would be.”

“You won’t,” I say out of turn.

Her father sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “Asher’s right. Besides, your mother and I would never be happy if you weren’t happy too.”

Her mother steps in, her voice soothing but firm. “We need to focus on what to do next.”

I clear my throat, pushing off the wall. “Well, one thing’s for sure: if Charlotte and I look convincingly in love, it makes it harder for Nana Peg to push the marriage angle. Nobody expects someone who’s supposedly madly in love to suddenly ditch their fiancé for another guy.”

---