Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
He chuckles behind me, and I can feel the warmth of his gaze linger even after I’ve turned away.
As I unzip my suitcase, pulling out the outfit I’d meticulously planned for the evening, a strange little thought worms its way into my brain and settles somewhere deep in my chest: What if it doesn’t feel like we’re faking… because we aren’t?
I shake it off, stuffing the notion right back where it came from.
This is just acting. A performance. A favor to my family.
But something tells me Asher Hawke has no intention of keeping things strictly professional.
And judging by the way my hands tremble slightly as I pull my dress off the hanger, maybe I don’t either.
Either way… this week?
Is going to be very interesting.
5
Asher
Dinner with the Lane family is a textbook elite gathering—high ceilings, cut-glass chandeliers, more reflective surfaces than a tactical house-clearing nightmare. Crystal, silver, and a banquet table long enough to compromise line-of-sight if things go sideways. I log entrances (three), usable cover (buffet console, piano), and nearest improvised weapon (candelabra—brass, heavy).
Charlotte enters on my arm, sapphire dress, shoulders held straighter than usual—tells me she’s running on adrenaline under the smile. If she’s tense, then my threat index auto-steps up one level. I widen my awareness radius.
Visual sweep of occupants: parents near midpoint—expressions polite but loaded: Sell the relationship. Staff staging at side door—two servers, minimal risk. And at the far end: Wade. Posture too composed, hands folded precisely, eyes tracking Charlotte’s every move with predatory fixation. Breathing shallow, minimal fidget: classic suppression of agitation. Internal alarm pings yellow—possible hostile intent.
I maintain the façade. The affable fiancé, hand light at Charlotte’s back while mapping Wade’s reach to cutlery, noting he has a clear lane down the table if he decides to close the distance. I’ll relocate seats if necessary.
Charlotte’s voice is steady enough. “Everyone, this is Asher, my fiancé.” Perfect cadence. I nod, deliver the measured half-smile, squeeze her hand—tactile cue we practiced for confidence and optics.
Wade’s gaze flicks between us, micro-tightening at the corners—assessing, calculating. I catalog his tells for later. For now, I file him as primary surveillance target, secondary extraction obstacle.
Operation dinner begins. Objective: convince, protect, observe. Contingency: move Charlotte behind piano, neutralize Wade with minimal collateral. All variables logged; execution underway.
“Asher,” her grandmother, who’s sitting closest to us, says, eyeing me up and down. “Fiancé? That’s... sudden.”
I take her hand, giving her my most charming smile. “When you know, you know, ma’am.”
She arches an eyebrow but says nothing, and I catch Charlotte giving me a small, approving nod. One hurdle down, about a hundred more to go.
We sit down, and I make sure to pull out Charlotte’s chair for her. Gotta sell the whole chivalrous boyfriend angle, right? As soon as we’re seated, though, I feel it again—that itch at the back of my neck. Wade hasn’t taken his eyes off her, and it’s starting to get under my skin.
“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.