Ashley's POV
The moment I stepped into the car, my hands wouldn't stop trembling.
"Home," I told the driver, my voice barely steady.
The door shut, the city noise faded, and for the first time since that handshake, I could breathe—barely. My chest rose and fell too quickly. My pulse hadn't calmed since I saw it — that small, gleaming cufflink with the initials A.J.
Alan.
Alan Jean.
My father's greatest rival's son.
The man I had slept with.
My stomach twisted. I pressed a hand against it, as if I could physically hold the truth down before it exploded out of me. Every memory from that night flashed like broken film reels — the way he'd touched me, the way I'd felt safe in his arms, the way he'd whispered nothing that could ever be traced.
No names.
No past.
No future.
And I'd thought it was freedom.
Now I realized it was a trap I'd walked into with both eyes closed.
The car turned a corner, but I barely noticed. My mind was spinning too fast, tripping over possibilities. Did he know it was me that night? Had he recognized me first? Was this some twisted game between the families?
No. That didn't make sense. The look on his face when our eyes met — that shock, that pause — it was real. We were both blindsided.
Still, that didn't make it any less dangerous.
If my father ever found out…
I swallowed hard, gripping the seatbelt until my knuckles turned white. He wouldn't just disown me. He'd destroy everything around me to erase the shame.
The Walters had fought the Jeans for years — lawsuits, smear campaigns, betrayals. My father used to say the Jean bloodline was "poison wearing designer suits." And now here I was, carrying the memory of one in my skin.
The car stopped in front of the house. I sat there for a full minute before stepping out. The marble steps blurred beneath my feet as I walked in, trying to hold myself together.
"Welcome back, Miss Walter," a maid said softly.
I nodded, forcing a smile, but my throat burned. My room felt too quiet when I got there. Too aware. I paced once, twice. Then I grabbed my phone.
I could've called Chloe. But no. Chloe would panic, overanalyze, maybe even tell someone without meaning to.
This wasn't something to gossip about.
This was something that could ruin us.
So I dialed another number.
"Hey," a sleepy voice answered. "Ash?"
"Yeah. You busy?"
"Not really. What's wrong?"
It was my younger sister, Tessa. Eighteen. Honest to a fault. And somehow, despite her age, she was the only person who could handle my mess without judgment.
"I need to talk," I said. "But you can't—cannot—say a word of this to anyone. Not even if someone threatens to kill you."
That woke her up. "Okay… you're scaring me. What happened?"
I sat on the edge of my bed, heart hammering. "Remember the gala?"
"Yeah, the one where you disappeared before midnight?
"Right. That night, I met someone."
Silence.
"Oh," Tessa finally said. "That kind of someone?"
I closed my eyes. "Yeah."
"Okay, go on."
I told her everything — or at least, the parts I could say out loud. The mystery, the attraction, the way I'd felt like I could finally breathe for one night without carrying the weight of our family name.
"And?" she asked quietly.
"And today I found out who he is."
"Who?"
"Alan Jean."
The silence on the other end could've cracked glass.
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
"Oh my God, Ashley." Her voice rose an octave. "Dad would—"
"I know."
"What are you going to do?"
I laughed. It came out shaky, almost hysterical. "I have no idea. Pretend it didn't happen, maybe. Pray no one ever finds out. Hope he doesn't say anything."
Tessa sighed. "Do you think he will?"
"No. He looked just as shocked as I was."
She was quiet for a while. Then she said softly, "You've always done what Dad expected. For once, you did something for yourself. It's just… the universe gave you the worst possible person."
"Story of my life."
I leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. My pulse was finally slowing, but my mind wouldn't rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that cufflink again — bright, damning, and unforgettable.
Alan's POV
I loosened my tie the second I stepped into my car. Leah slid in beside me, eyes sharp as ever.
"Spill," she said.
"About what?"
"Don't start with me, Alan. You've been twitchy since that meeting. What's going on?"
I rubbed a hand over my jaw, debating whether to lie. Leah was my twin — lying to her was like lying to a mirror. She'd always see through it.
"Promise you won't tell anyone?" I said finally.
Her eyebrows shot up. "That bad?"
"Promise, Leah."
She studied me for a second, then nodded. "Fine. I promise."
I exhaled slowly. "The woman from the Walters' side — Ashley. I've met her before."
Her eyes widened. "Where?"
"At the gala."
"The same gala where you disappeared for hours?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, hell." She leaned back, letting out a low whistle. "You didn't."
I didn't answer.
Her eyes snapped to mine. "You did. Alan, please tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I slept with her."
Leah buried her face in her hands. "You absolute idiot."
"It wasn't planned," I said quietly. "We didn't even exchange names. It was just… one night. I didn't know who she was."
"And now she's your business partner," Leah said flatly. "This is beyond bad. This is—"
"I know."
She groaned. "Dad would blow a gasket if he found out. You realize that, right?"
"He won't."
"He can't."
Silence settled between us for a moment. The city blurred past outside, but all I could see was her face — the shock in her eyes, the way she'd frozen when she saw my cufflink.
"You like her," Leah said quietly.
I turned to her. "What?"
"You do. That's the problem."
I didn't answer, because she wasn't wrong.
Something about Ashley lingered long after she'd walked away — that quiet defiance, that strength wrapped in grace. I'd tried to shake it off, but it was impossible.
Leah sighed again. "You need to stay focused. This merger is huge. If Dad even suspects you're involved with her, he'll destroy her family all over again just to make a point."
"I know."
"And still, you're thinking about her."
I glanced out the window, jaw tight. "Wouldn't you?"
Leah didn't respond. She didn't have to. The silence said everything.
When I got home, I poured myself a drink I didn't touch. My reflection in the glass table stared back — calm, controlled, and lying.
I told myself to forget her.
But the truth was simple.
You can't forget someone who's already burned into your skin.