Page 3 of Kneel with the King
So, I guess we’re doing this.
The woman hands us both matching welcome envelopes with the room keys inside.
We make our way to our shared suite. The door clicks softly behind us as we step out of the building and into the snow, King’s arm still around my shoulders.
The moment we’re far enough away from anyone to see us, I twist slightly, just enough to shrug him off. His arm falls away like it was never there, but the weight of it lingers, pressed into the space between my neck and spine like a hot brand.
I don’t say anything. Not here. Not yet.
But my thoughts are sharp and loud and already racing ahead.
“Trent says hi, by the way,” King says, his tone eerily casual.
That’s the moment it lands, and the moment I realize just what the fuck I’m doing. Hearing him say Trent’s name is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and I’m suddenly filled with the resentment and anger that’s been festering for over a year.
Trent Marchand—my client, my anchor, the account Ibuiltfrom the ground up, including a fifteen-person team, the one I moved to New York for. The last time I saw King’s name in my inbox was the morning after Trent’s “surprise” announcement that he was moving all assets to a new firm.
I knew immediately that someone had poached him, because King had been poaching smaller clients from my roster all last year.
I’d given him an earful over the phone that day, and even back then, he was calm and collected. So annoyingly mature about the whole thing, citing,“It’s just business.”
I clench my jaw so hard it clicks.
Whatever this is? It’s not random. King is here, doing this for some reason I have yet to ascertain.
And I’m not letting him win.
Not this time.
Not again.
King Knows Best
Asher
We’resilent as we walk the snowy path toward the cabins, the soft falling of snow the only sound. The afternoon sun is hidden behind the gray clouds, and despite the fact that we have a few more hours of sunlight, it feels like dusk already.
I hate it. I hate this. I’ve never been one to relax while on holiday, but a working holiday? I’d much rather just be at my desk where I have everything all set up for maximum efficiency. And I already know this week is going to test my limits… in more ways than one.
Especially now that King is here.
I didn’t expect to see him—didn’t know he’d even be on the guest list. And I definitely didn’t think I’d be sharing a damn suite with the man who’s made it his mission to upend everything I’ve built. And yet… here we are.
The weight of my duffel bag is already digging into my shoulder, and in my other hand is a terrifyingly thick welcome packet titledWellness & Surrender: Reclaiming Your Presence.Just reading it makes my stomach turn.
King walks beside me like we’re on some kind of joint mission. Relaxed, hands in his pockets, like this is any other offsite. Not a total PR-disaster-in-the-making with fake dating,shared accommodations, and a history between us that feels more like a pressure cooker than anything else.
“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter, keeping my voice low, even though we’re alone.
He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t hear you object.”
“I was caught off guard.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For salvaging your access to the most exclusive couples retreat in the country.”
