Page 8 of Defending What's Mine

“So, Asher,” Wade says, his voice as smooth as oil, “how long have you and Charlotte been together?”

I give him a pleasant smile, even though all I want to do is tell him to back off. I stare him dead in the eyes, looking for any reaction. “A few months.”

“Months?” Wade’s mother, Nancy, chimes in, her eyes wide. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

Charlotte laughs lightly, her hand sliding over mine on the table. Her touch relaxes me. “We wanted to keep it private. You know how things are when everyone’s watching your every move.”

It’s a good cover, and I give her hand a light squeeze, playing along. But Wade? He’s not buying it.

He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine like he’s king of the castle. “Funny,” he says, his gaze still on Charlotte, “I didn’t think you were the type to keep secrets, Charlotte.”

The muscles in my shoulders tense, but I keep my face neutral. Something’s off about this guy. He’s too interested, too invested in everything Charlotte does.

I don’t like it.

As dinner is served, I focus on playing my role, nodding at the right moments, making small talk with the family, but my attention keeps flicking back to Wade. He’s up to something, and I don’t need my years in the military to figure that out.

Charlotte, though, looks stunning. She’s the picture of grace, laughing at her father’s jokes, talking with her grandmother about some charity event. She’s good at this, better than I expected. But every time Wade speaks, I clock how her fingers tighten on her wine glass, and I know she feels it too.

Halfway through the meal, I make a decision. I’m calling Dean, my boss, later. I need to have him dig deeper into Wade’s background. I don’t care if he’s the golden boy of the Sinclair family—something’s not right, and I’m not about to take any chances with Charlotte’s safety.

“So, Asher,” Wade’s voice cuts through my thoughts again, “what is it that you do, exactly?”

I look at him, giving him the same blank stare I used on people back in my military days. “I’m in private security.”

His smirk falters for a split second, and I get a weird sense of satisfaction from it. “Private security, huh? I imagine you’re very good at it.”

“I do all right,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “Especially when it comes to protecting what matters.”

Wade’s eyes narrow just enough for me to notice, but before he can reply, Charlotte leans in and rests her hand on my arm. “Asher’s amazing,” she says, her voice a little too sugary. “I couldn’t imagine feeling safer with anyone else.”

I almost laugh at how perfect her timing is. She’s really leaning into this whole act, and for a second, I almost forget we’re pretending. Almost.

Dinner wraps up, and as we all start standing to leave, I can feel Wade watching us, his gaze like a weight on my back. I help Charlotte up from her chair, keeping my hand on the small of her back, and she lets out a quiet breath of relief.

As we walk away from the table, heading back toward the suite, Charlotte lets out a soft groan. “This is going to be a long week.”

“You did great,” I say, shooting her a sideways glance.

“Oh, Asher,” Charlotte’s grandmother calls after us.

I spin around, plastering on a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’d like to speak to you,” she puckers her lips, eyeing everyone at the table before focusing back on me, “alone.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

The sitting room off the Lane lobby is staged to look casual—over-stuffed club chairs, floral chintz that hasn’t been fashionable in decades, an antique escritoire parked under a portrait of someone’s stern Victorian ancestor. But nothing here is accidental. Every piece shouts old-money permanence, a reminder that outsiders tread on generational turf.

Charlotte’s grandmother—Margaret Lane to society pages, “Nana Peg” to the family—waits by the window, spine ramrod straight, teacup balanced in one hand like a judge’s gavel. I close the door behind me, note the solid brass bolt (good) and the single ground-floor sash window (escape route if conversation goes nuclear). No immediate threats, only a ninety-pound matriarch with a gaze that could blister paint.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Hawke,” she says, voice warm enough to pass for hospitable. I catch the steel beneath it. She gestures to a chair opposite. “Please, sit.”

I take the seat she offers, and set my back to the wall, sight line on the door. Habit. Hands folded, posture open. Let her read what she wants.

She studies me in silence for a long breath, blue eyes sharp as a scalpel. “You handled yourself well at dinner—good manners, attentive to Charlotte.” She sets her cup in its saucer withsurgical precision. “But courtship isn’t an evening performance. It’s a lifetime.”

“Agreed,” I say evenly.

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