CHAPTER TWELVE
ASHLEY POV
Saturday mornings have always been quiet for me.
Not empty.
Not lonely.
Quiet in the way the world exhales after a long week, loosening its grip just enough to remind you that time belongs to you before it belongs to anyone else.
I wake without an alarm, sunlight slipping through the blinds in soft gold ribbons that stretch across my wall and the edge of my bed. The city hums faintly outside — distant traffic, a horn somewhere far off, the murmur of life continuing whether I participate or not.
I lie there for a few moments longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing the way my body feels.
Normal.
Not tense.
Not coiled.
Not unsettled.
That matters more than I want to admit.
Yesterday didn't shake me because I'm weak. I've never been weak. I've navigated chaos before — personal, professional, emotional. I know how to keep my footing when things shift.
Yesterday startled me because something unfamiliar crossed my path.
And my instincts noticed.
I trust my instincts.
I always have.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching once, feeling the floor cool beneath my feet. My apartment is quiet, tidy in the way it always is — not sterile, not obsessive, just intentional.
I shower. I dress in something soft and comfortable. I brew coffee and let the smell fill the kitchen while the toast browns.
Everything is routine.
Grounding.
Good.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
CHIOE
I smile before I answer.
"Morning."
"Good," she says immediately. "You don't sound possessed."
I snort. "I never sound possessed."
"You absolutely do when something's wrong," she counters. "You get very… polite."
"I'm polite all the time."
"No," she says. "You're precise. There's a difference."
I lean against the counter, coffee mug warming my hands. "What do you want, Chioe?"
"Brunch."
"It's nine."
"Exactly. Beat the crowds. Also, I need gossip."
"There's nothing to gossip about."
She laughs. "Ashley. Please. You don't start a new job under a hostile billionaire without generating at least one scandal."
"I didn't start a scandal."
"You ran to the restroom on your first day."
I wince. "That was… situational."
"Uh-huh. Café on Seventh. Twenty minutes."
"I'll be there."
The air outside is crisp, the kind that wakes you up without being rude about it. I walk instead of driving, letting the rhythm of my steps steady my thoughts.
People pass me, couples holding hands, joggers with headphones in, someone walking a dog that's clearly dragging them instead of the other way around.
Normal lives.
Normal days.
Whatever unsettled me yesterday hasn't followed me here.
That matters too.
Chioe is already there when I arrive, sunglasses on, legs crossed, surveying the room like she owns it.
"There you are," she says, standing to hug me. "Still upright. Good sign."
"I was never not upright."
She pulls back, studying me more carefully now. "You're steady."
"I know."
"That wasn't a question."
We sit. Coffee arrives almost immediately — Chioe clearly planned this.
She doesn't waste time. "Okay. Tell me about him."
"About who?"
She gives me a look. The kind that reminds me she's known me long enough to smell deflection before I open my mouth.
"Don't do that."
I sigh. "He's… controlled. Intense. Not inappropriate."
"But?" she presses.
"But something about him doesn't align," I say calmly. "Like his presence doesn't match the space he occupies."
Chioe stirs her drink slowly. "That's a very you way of saying 'bad vibe.'"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And I noticed it," I finish. "That's all."
She watches me carefully, eyes sharp. "You're not shaken."
"No."
"Not intimidated?"
"No."
She nods slowly, satisfied. "Good."
I lift a brow. "Good?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "Because I know you. If you were scared, you'd say it. If you were in trouble, you'd already be planning your exit."
I smile faintly. "I'm not in trouble."
"Then I'm satisfied."
We let the subject drop — not because it's resolved, but because we both know when to let silence do its job.
We talk about everything else instead. Work gossip. Mutual friends. A disastrous date she endured last week. A vacation she's planning that she hasn't told her boss about yet.
The normality of it all settles around me like a blanket.
I laugh easily. I relax.
Whatever crossed my path yesterday did not uproot my life.
Not yet.
And if it tries…
I trust myself to respond.
---
DAMIEN — POV
Saturday nights always stretch.
They don't rush.
They don't apologize.
Eric's penthouse is alive tonight — low lights, expensive music, the kind that makes bodies sway without realizing they're moving. The glass walls are open just enough to let the city's hum drift in, mixing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the slow burn of indulgence.
Mason is already drunk.
Not sloppy — just pleasantly careless.
He's sprawled across the couch, shirt half unbuttoned, arm thrown over the back like he owns the place. Jordan sits cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, cards scattered between his fingers though no one's playing anything yet.
Eric moves easily between the bar and the windows, pouring drinks like a host who never worries about running out.
"Gentlemen," he announces, lifting a glass. "To surviving another week without consequences."
Mason snorts. "Speak for yourself. I left at least three women questioning their life choices."
Jordan grins. "Only three? You're losing your touch."
I take my drink and sink into a chair, letting the leather cradle me.
"Don't be dramatic," I say. "They always question themselves afterward. That's part of the charm."
Eric laughs. "Ah yes. The moment when they realize the peak never comes."
Mason lifts his head, eyes bright. "God, that look. When they're right there — breath caught, muscles tight — and then…" He snaps his fingers. "Nothing."
Jordan shudders theatrically. "Cruel."
"Efficient," Eric corrects. "The Allo is cleaner than death. Leaves them alive enough to keep chasing."
I swirl my drink. "And confused enough to blame themselves."
Mason nods approvingly. "I had one last month — cried into my chest afterward. Kept asking what she did wrong."
"What did you tell her?" Jordan asks.
"That she needed to relax," Mason says, laughing. "That she was 'overthinking it.'"
Eric nearly chokes on his drink. "You're evil."
"Thank you."
Jordan leans back on his hands. "I had one try to call me three days straight. Said she'd never felt so close to finishing, but never crossed it."
Eric smirks. "Did you answer?"
"Once," Jordan admits. "She sounded… frantic."
"Always do," I say calmly. "The body remembers the start but never the end."
The room hums with satisfaction.
Music shifts. Something slower. Thicker.
Eric pours again. "You ever wonder what they tell their friends?"
Mason grins. "That it was intense. That it was almost perfect."
Jordan adds, "That it ruined them for everyone else."
Silence follows that — not uncomfortable, just indulgent.
I lean back further, stretching my legs. "Almost is the most addictive word in the human language."
Eric points his glass at me. "That should be engraved somewhere."
Mason laughs. "You've always been poetic about it."
"Someone has to appreciate the art," I reply.
Jordan watches me more closely now, head tilted. "You're quieter tonight."
I glance at him. "Am I?"
"Yeah," Mason says. "Usually by now you're bragging."
Eric adds lightly, "Or planning."
I shrug. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the moment."
Jordan raises a brow. "That's new."
Eric smirks. "Careful. That's how reflection starts."
Mason waves him off. "Relax. He's not growing a conscience."
I smile faintly. "Don't worry. I know exactly what I am."
Mason lifts his glass. "To that."
We drink.
Laughter spills again — stories blur together, names reduced to impressions. A girl in Prague. A couple in Berlin. Someone's assistant who thought power was protection.
The city outside keeps glowing, ignorant and vulnerable.
At some point, Mason laughs too hard and nearly spills his drink.
"You know what I love most?" he says. "They always think the emptiness means they need more."
Eric nods. "More sex. More risk. More chaos."
Jordan adds quietly, "More us."
I don't respond.
Not because he's wrong — but because the word more settles differently tonight.
Eric claps his hands. "Alright. Cards. Loser tells their worst story."
Mason groans. "That's dangerous."
"That's the point."
I don't join the game immediately. I watch them instead — monsters at ease, basking in their nature, unburdened by doubt.
This is what Saturday is for.
No guilt.
No restraint.
No tomorrow.
I finish my drink and finally smile — slow, indulgent, sharp.
Whatever Monday brings…
Tonight belongs to us.
---
ASHLEY — POV
By the time I return home, the sun is dipping low, painting the buildings gold.
I kick off my shoes, set my bag down, and pause by the window.
The city looks harmless from here.
I don't feel watched.
I don't feel pulled.
I don't feel threatened.
Good.
I make dinner. Something simple. Eat slowly. Let the evening stretch without urgency.
Later, I curl up on the couch with a book, legs tucked beneath me, lamp casting a soft pool of light.
My phone stays silent.
No emails.
No emergencies.
No demands.
Whatever waits for me on Monday…
It can wait.
For tonight, I belong only to myself.
.