Page 22 of Defending What's Mine

I nod, removing my earrings and setting them on the dresser. “Do you have anyone you're currently seeing?” it never even dawned on me that Asher has a life outside of his work. He could be happily married, and this is only an assignment for him.

My stomach drops as I wait for his answer.

He removes his tie, shaking his head. His eyes slam into mine. “Haven’t met anyone that I could see myself going all the way with.”

I release a breath, and try to pretend that his answer didn’t just affect me the way it did.

He stands from the bed, stalking across the room until he’s standing right in front of me. He lifts his hand, sweeping a strand of hair from my face and brushing it behind my ear. “I would have never taken this assignment if I was in a committed relationship. It would be cheating, and I’d never do that.”

I gaze into his eyes, blinking, my heart racing. “Oh,” I whisper, my mind wandering back to the moment he kissed me before dinner.

I want him to kiss me again.

He keeps his hand close to my face, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “It wouldn’t be fair to her,” he says, and I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about.

And then my mind catches up.Her. Another woman that’ll end up with Asher. Because of course there isn’t a world where we end up together.

This isonlyan assignment. It’s his job. And when it’s all over, he’ll go back to his regular life. He’ll meet a lucky woman, and marry her. Jealousy rages through me, and I step back.

“Right,” I snap out. “I should take a shower.” I quickly move away from him and grab my toiletry bag.

Once I’m in the safety of the bathroom, I let out a small huff. I already hate this fictional woman who I haven’t even met. Who Asher hasn’t even met.I hate her.I hate her so much.

And I close my eyes, imagining I could bethat woman.

11

Asher

Dawn stains the resort in grayscale: mist on the ornamental pond, long knife-shadows under topiary cedars, dew glittering on mosaic tiles. Perfect hour for a clandestine call—most guests are still comatose, the staff change-over is just starting, and cameras frame nothing but rabbits and sprinklers. I ghost down the gravel service path, counting blind spots, until I’m behind a lattice of climbing jasmine that screens the garden from the breakfast terrace.

Phone out. One bar of signal is enough. Dean’s number sits at the top of my priority list—tap, lift, breathe. Two rings.

“Hawke,” he answers, clipped, as if he hasn’t just been yanked out of REM sleep.

“Need a deeper dive,” I murmur, eyes sweeping the dormant rose beds. “On Wade Sinclair.”

Dean’s keyboard comes alive through the earpiece. “I’ve skimmed the public dossier—prep-school valedictorian, IvyMBA, string of board seats he never earned. How deep and how dirty?”

“As far as the shovel goes. He’s circling Charlotte like a vulture and flexing leverage over her father’s company—threats to burn it down if she won’t sign on the marital dotted line.”

Low whistle. “Hostile takeover via altar. Nice. You have direct statements?”

“Eyewitness and audio in my head,” I reply, pivoting to keep sightline on both garden gates. “He waited until she was alone, then dropped the ultimatum like it was a fucking stock tip. Body language predatory, pulse elevated, pupils blown—guy’s desperate. Feels cartel-level desperate.”

Dean’s typing intensifies. “I’ll drill into offshore shells, private-equity dark corners. Let’s see who’s bankrolling him. Might sting.”

“Sting him,” I correct. “I want pressure points mapped before dinner service.”

“Copy.” He pauses, tone softening. “How’s your asset?”

Image flashes: Charlotte asleep upstairs, hair fanned across linen, worry lines smoothed for once. Asset, yes—and something more complicated. “Holding,” I say. “But Sinclair’s on a countdown. I intend to cut the wire before it reaches zero.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, his mother,” I grind out, pacing a slow perimeter around the rose pergola. Dew beads on my boots; the hedgerow hides me from any early-riser spies. “Last night she tried to spring a pop-up wedding on us. Same weekend, all guests conveniently present. Classic entrapment drill.”

Dean snorts in my ear. “Pressure cooker. See who cracks.”

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