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“Asshole,” he said as he cut the rope with a pocketknife.
He grabbed his keys and shirt and then walked out the door, leaving me with my thoughts, a well-used asshole, and the lingering emotions of it all.
Chapter13
Weston
The sun was a traitor. Its light snuck past the blinds, a glaring reminder I’d overslept. 9:00 a.m. already. I should’ve been up hours ago, suited and scowling, ready to rip someone’s marriage to shreds. Instead, Kent’s voice echoed in my head. He told me to take the day off and visit Dad. I didn’t want to, but I knew the bastard would haunt me in my sleep if he keeled over and I never saw him. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the weight of the Ashbourne legacy pushing down on me like a lead blanket. Dad was in the hospital. The great Arthur Ashbourne, laid out and hooked to machines. A sick part of me wanted to see him vulnerable, to witness the iron man rusting.
He taught us to be strong. To suffocate anything resembling weakness until it was nothing but a whisper at the back of our minds. Emotions were for those who couldn’t handle power. And we, the Ashbournes, wielded it like a goddamn birthright.
“Never let them see you bleed,” he’d say. So I didn’t. For forty-two years, I kept the wounds hidden, bound tight beneath bespoke suits and an Ivy League veneer. Having feelings was never in the cards. It’s why we’re all fucked-up now. Broken toys in a gilded cage.
Kent’s words nagged at me. The thought of facing the old man stirred something dark inside. But perhaps it was time to look the devil in the eye, acknowledge the cracks in our armor. Dad was down, and I… I had to see what that looked like.
The empty half of the bed sneered at me, its sheets untouched and chilly. I groaned; it felt like a cruel joke, a spot too neat for my chaotic existence. In the shower, steam fogged the mirror while I scrubbed away my lingering unease. But no amount of water could cleanse the mark of family connections.
I dressed in jeans and a snug, white T-shirt, the fabric hugging my frame. A departure from the typical Ashbourne attire. No fancy silk ties suffocating honesty. Just cotton and denim—a mask of normality. It seemed like a betrayal, yet strangely freeing.
I filled my thermos with black coffee, no frills. The first sip burned, snapping me to attention. Cynthia’s vanishing act lingered in my mind. No note, no text. She usually left traces. But today, all I got was silence. I grabbed a piece of fruit, its weight comfortable in my hand, and let the thought of her whereabouts disappear as I took a bite out of the apple and grabbed my keys. As I headed toward the door, the opposite hallway drew my attention, the quiet reminder of fucked-up memories I tried to push to the depths of my soul.
But they always resurfaced like a stain. Just like the memories of the club a few nights ago, the thrill of defiance was still fresh in my mind. Darius, that irresistible presence, exploring every part of who I really was. My skin prickled as I remembered the surge of energy running through me as I knelt in front of him—not out of obligation, but out of want. It was intense and real—I was under his control and he didn’t even know it. I was completely ready to lose myself to him.
The air around me felt charged, heavy with the ghost of his touch. Perfection, the Ashbourne brand, crumbled beneath the weight of our secret. No airs, no graces—just primal need clawing through the veneer of civility. In that room with him, I wasn’t Weston Ashbourne, the immaculate attorney, the obedient son. I was raw nerve endings and ragged breaths, a man starved for truth in a life built on lies. Snapping out of my thoughts, I stormed out the door, my steps echoing through the empty hallway as I made my way to the garage.
I settled into the plush leather of my BMW, feeling the raw power beneath my touch. With a click, the engine roared to life, ready for action. I could have driven off that instant, but something compelled me to check my phone for a message from him, a constant torment in itself. Although he fucked my brains out and made my nerves shatter beneath my skin three nights ago, he left me high and dry. Three texts sent, all left unanswered. His silence was a game, one I had no choice but to play.
Asphalt blurred beneath tires as I drove, the cityscape a monochrome backdrop to visceral memories. My foot pressed the pedal, acceleration a mimicry of pulse—quick, relentless. With every mile clocked, my mind raced back to him—Darius, with those fucking hazel eyes and that smirk that said he knew all my secrets. I wasn’t this man before—never craved the driver’s seat, the open road. But Darius, he drew out the rebel, coaxed out the thrill-seeker buried under years of shitty family expectations. I tapped my thumb on the steering wheel as the hospital came into view. A small part of me wanted to turn around and go back home, but I kept my foot on the gas and drove into the hospital parking garage.
I let out a breath, and my heart did that sick lurch it does when you’re somewhere you don’t want to be.Hospitals. Goddamn hospitals with their stench of bleach and despair.My fingers twitched for my phone. Another glance maybe, but I shoved the urge down deep where I kept all the other shit I wasn’t dealing with today. Cole’s text was just a blip on the screen—a room number and building, nothing else because Cole never gave more than necessary. The message glared back at me, leading me through the labyrinth of white walls and linoleum floors, each step towards the silver elevators a descent into hell. Or maybe, in my case, an ascent.
Twelfth floor. I stopped, the numbers glowing like a beacon as the doors parted. Opulence slapped me in the face. It figured. Dad’s suite looked like it had been ripped out of some high-class penthouse magazine, with shiny marble and paintings that cost more than most people’s homes. No sterile corners here; this was luxury dipped in gold. The door, heavy and elaborate, mocked me with its grandeur. I pushed it open. It swung without a sound. Well-oiled hinges, like everything in Arthur Ashbourne’s life—smooth, silent, and expensive. I had words on my tongue ready to give Cole a fucking piece of my mind, but they died when I saw her.Cynthia. Of all the goddamn things.
She stood there, draped in designer threads, looking every bit the part of a grieving daughter-in-law. Except she wasn’t grieving, and she sure as hell wasn’t looking at me like I was her husband. Surprise flickered across her features—a crack in her perfect mask. She had no business being here, not really.
“Weston,” she cooed, but I wasn’t buying what she was selling.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, voice flat.
She was an unwanted complication in a day already twisted with too many thoughts of Darius—the man whose touch I craved like a damn addict. The room shifted as I stepped in, the air parting like a curtain of tension. Cole’s shadow loomed over the figure in the hospital bed, and Cynthia floated towards me—her movements all grace and calculation. Her perfume hit me like a wave of decay, sickly sweet and cloying, nothing like Darius’s raw, musky scent that lingered in my mind, teasing at the edges of my consciousness.
“Sweetheart,” she purred, lips puckering for a kiss meant for public show, not private affection.
I dodged her, turning my face away, and strode to the bedside of the man who called himself father. His chest rose and fell with mechanical precision, the only sign he was more than just another piece of expensive furniture in this too-lavish room.
“Why are you here?” My voice sliced through the sterile silence, sharp and cold.
Her eyes darted—a deer caught in headlights; a liar snagged in the truth. She stumbled over her words, fumbling for an excuse, any excuse. “I… I was just on my way back from breakfast with friends and… and saw the hospital. Thought I’d drop by, pay Arthur a visit.” The lie sat between us, ugly and fucking obvious.
I didn’t have time for her games, not today. Not when every cell in my body screamed for release, for the freedom that came with hands that weren’t hers, a touch that erased the Ashbourne name and left only raw need. I craved the escape Darius offered, the intoxicating rush of being utterly, devastatingly unchained.
“Right,” I muttered, not bothering to hide my disbelief. I turned away, dismissing her presence, and focused on the man whose legacy I carried like chains around my neck. Arthur Ashbourne—the root of every twisted branch in our fucked-up family tree.
She picked up her purse and started to speak, but I silenced her with a dismissive wave of my hand.
The door clicked shut, her lingering scent swept away by the sterile hospital air. Silence settled heavily, except for the rhythmic beeping of life-sustaining machines. Cole slouched into the leather chair like it was his throne, eyes fixed on me with that familiar, smug look.
“Spit it out,” I said, my patience threadbare. “What were you two whispering about?”
