(Asher's pov)
The penthouse was bathed in the soft glow of morning sunlight, and for once, I allowed myself a moment of quiet before the storm of the day began. The apartment felt emptier than usual without her stirring through the halls, humming to herself or moving with the careful grace that always made my pulse catch. Today, I was the one moving for her—for her comfort, her sense of normalcy, the small comfort she deserved after yesterday.
I worked with deliberate care in the kitchen, cracking eggs, whisking them to a perfect consistency, frying them just long enough for a golden edge, slicing fresh fruit with precision. I arranged the plate neatly on the table, even aligning the toast slices with their crusts parallel, a detail she would notice because she always did. And then I left the note—simple, restrained, but filled with my intentions, my acknowledgment of her: Eat well. I'll be back soon. No flourish, no unnecessary words. It was enough, and yet, even writing that, I felt a strange tightness in my chest.
It was quiet here, too quiet. My thoughts drifted inevitably to the video. I couldn't forget the small screen, the quiet click that alerted me, and the image of her laughing with him, leaning just slightly toward Noah. He had kept his hand on her shoulder—not inappropriately, not in any way malicious—but the perception could be skewed, twisted in ways I couldn't allow. The thought of my grandmother, the public, the people who believed in us seeing this was like fire in my veins. And yet, it wasn't anger alone. It was a sharper, more personal edge—jealousy, protective instinct, and the unspoken acknowledgment that she belonged here, with me, in every way that mattered.
I called Noah immediately, voice calm, sharp, commanding as ever. "Come to my office. Now." There was no room for hesitation. I didn't care if he was just waking up or in the middle of preparations; this required immediate attention. When he arrived, he found me already waiting, the phone on the desk displaying the video, paused at a frame that showed her smile just before she confessed.
"Do you understand the gravity of this?" I asked, keeping my tone steady but allowing the sharpness of authority and personal stake to bleed through. "This is a breach of privacy. Someone recorded her. Without consent. This is unacceptable. Her safety, her reputation, her trust—these are not negotiable."
Noah's eyes widened, the weight of responsibility settling over him like a cloak. He nodded quickly. "Sir… I understand. Whoever did this—we can trace it. Track it. Make sure it doesn't spread."
"Good," I said, leaning back slightly, letting the authority I wielded both professionally and personally settle in the room. "We will track it. We will find them. And Noah, you need to understand—this is not a game. The public perception of her, of us, is delicate. We cannot allow rumors, interpretations, or manipulations to touch her. Especially not her feelings, not her trust. Understood?"
"Understood, sir," he said, voice firm but edged with his own guilt. "I'll handle it immediately."
I studied him for a moment, seeing in him the mixture of responsibility and loyalty that made him indispensable. But the video—her laughter, the tilt of her head toward him, her voice confessing something so human and fragile—gnawed at me, a quiet ache behind my ribs I couldn't shake. I had to protect her. Not just physically, not just from the world, but from the perception, the fragile misinterpretations that could hurt her in ways she didn't deserve.
Finally, I stood, pushing the chair back and straightening my jacket. "Keep this between us. Anyone who sees this, anyone who knows about it—if it spreads, there will be consequences. And Noah…" My voice dropped just slightly, a quiet but sharp edge threading through. "This is not just about her. It's about me, about us, about everything that surrounds this arrangement. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," he said again, his gaze steady now. "I understand. I won't fail her—or you."
The meeting was brief, but my mind remained tethered to the scene in the video. I saw every small motion, every tilt of her shoulder, every laugh, every blush. And yet, what cut deeper than the breach itself was the subtle warmth in the frame—the comfort he offered her, unintentionally or not, which could be misread by anyone who didn't know the context. It was a simple touch, an instinctive gesture—but to the wrong eyes, it became a scandal.
I returned to the penthouse later that day, the city sprawling below me in golden afternoon light, and the weight of the morning's discovery pressed against my chest like an unrelenting tide. She was asleep when I returned, the quiet rise and fall of her chest visible even from the doorway. I let myself linger for a moment, noting how peaceful she looked in slumber, how human, how delicate, and how fiercely important she had become to me.
The breakfast I had prepared was mostly untouched on the table, the note beside it, slightly crumpled as if she had read it before leaving for the morning. I smiled faintly, a small, private acknowledgment of my own careful effort. Perhaps she had not expected it; perhaps she would never admit it—but the act alone grounded me, reminded me of the quiet ways I could assert care without words, without intrusion, without breaking the invisible lines we had drawn.
My mind wandered inevitably back to the video, to the hand on her shoulder, to the laughter, to the confession. Whoever had filmed it—an unknown, an enemy lurking in shadows—had no idea what they were stirring. And yet, I could not allow my anger, my protectiveness, or my jealousy to cloud judgment. I had to act strategically. Calmly. Decisively.
I made the decision then, firmly and clearly, that I would trace every angle, uncover every breach, and ensure that no part of her privacy—or our arrangement—was ever threatened again. And yet, beneath the calculated professionalism, there was a simmering heat, a personal, private, relentless need to ensure she was untouchable. Untouched. Unthreatened. Mine in every visible and invisible way that mattered.
I left her sleeping, leaving the apartment only long enough to attend a brief meeting, my mind never straying far from the images on my phone. Each frame burned in memory, not just for the danger it posed, but for the undeniable, unspoken ache it brought with it. Protecting her was no longer simply a matter of professional duty—it was personal. Deeply personal.
And when I returned, the apartment seemed quieter still, the city lights below flickering like distant stars. She stirred in her sleep, and I allowed myself the briefest, most dangerous thought: she was mine, entirely and irrevocably, and no shadow, no camera, no misinterpretation, no Noah, would change that.