Page 9 of Vance

“He did,” he parrots, and I realize his fingers are still wrapped around my hand. I give the gentlest tug, expecting him to release me. But he doesn’t. Instead, his thumb strokes lazily across my knuckles again as he speaks. “His protection is gone.”

When he finishes, he relinquishes his grip. My hand falls back to my side as my heart flutters, and I’m unsure whether it’s from his touch or his less-than-subtle threat.

“What?”

“His… patience. The Ashford Group is a very different place without Roman watching over you.” A breeze stirs, carrying the scent of damp earth and freshly cut flowers, as I search his face in a futile attempt to decipher what he’s really saying.

Is it a threat? Or a warning?

Movement behind him catches my attention. Kaden stands beside a black SUV—eerily similar to the one outside my apartment the other night—with his arms folded over his broad chest. He’s watching us without so much as pretending otherwise. A few feet away, Beckett leans casually against another vehicle, sunglasses shielding his eyes despite the overcast afternoon. He nudges Baldwin before subtly tipping his chin in our direction. They’re watching, too.

“I know my father had plans for you,” Vance says, stealing my attention.

“I know. He talked about promoting me.”

His expression remains maddeningly unreadable as silence settles between us. From the corner of my eye, I watch the last of the mourners pull away in their luxury sedans. All that remains are a handful of cemetery staff folding chairs, the Ashford brothers, and me.

“We should meet tomorrow for dinner.” Though his words should be an invitation, his tone leaves no room for negotiation. “To discuss your future.”

“Tomorrow? Dinner?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr. Ashford.”

“No?”

“No,” I state firmly.

“We disagree,” he muses. Before I can respond, his fingers brush the side of my neck as he adjusts the collar of my coat, igniting the nerve endings across my skin. “But that’s those pesky morals and ethics you seem to hold so tight to. Have it your way. My office. Nine o’clock.”

His hand falls away, and he steps away. I can’t speak. Actually, for the first time in my life, I can’t even remember how to.

He’s trying to rattle me. I know he is. Every word, touch, and calculated pause is designed to throw me off balance. The invitation wasn’t dinner. The touch wasn’t fixing my collar. Every second of this conversation has been a demonstration of control. His control. A reminder that he alone dictates the terms of every interaction between us. He expects me to leave here flustered and questioning myself. And I refuse to give him that satisfaction… even if my traitorous heartbeat is doing its best to prove him right.

A slow smile ghosts across his lips. “Until tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Satisfied with his work, he rejoins his brothers without another glance. Kaden says something that earns the faintest shake of Vance’s head, while Beckett looks at me over his shoulder with a curious grin.

My legs feel strangely unsteady as I make my way to my car. After unlocking the door, I slide in behind the wheel and sit there for five, maybe ten, minutes. I stare at my hands in my lap while my mind replays every utterance of our conversation. My fingertips drift unconsciously to the base of my throat, dusting over the skin where he adjusted my collar. Such an innocent gesture that felt so… possessive.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder, lighting up with Kierra’s smiling photo.

KIKI

Hey. I don’t know if you’re done with the funeral yet, but I’m heading out with some friends. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

I stare at her text and momentarily think about telling her the truth: that Roman Ashford’s death has made me vulnerable in ways I couldn’t have fathomed. Instead, my thumbs move almost automatically, typing out the big sister’s response that won’t make her worry.

Fine. Just finished. Actually heading home now.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Love you. Drive safe.

Love you more.

I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the engine, the Honda coughing once before settling into its familiar hum. As I pull away from the cemetery, I catch one last glimpse of them in my rearview mirror—a dark, imposing quintet of suits, all now standing watch over their father’s fresh grave. They look less like grieving sons and more like vultures circling a fresh kill