"Anything else?"
"Well, he's a killer."
I go still.
"What?"
"What, babe?" he murmurs.
"Asher. What do you mean your father’s a killer?"
His eyes open. For a moment, he looks confused, like he's not sure where he is. Then realization hits, and he laughs. "Jesus, Julie. I don't mean he's Freddy Krueger."
"You can't just casually say your father is a killer."
"I mean in business." He pulls me closer, still chuckling. "He's ruthless. Cutthroat. Whatever word makes it sound less insane. If you're in his way, he'll destroy you without blinking. People are terrified of him."
"That's not comforting."
"I know." His mouth brushes my temple. "But he's not going to eat you. He's just... intense. And he cares about appearances, so he's going to judge everything."
"So you said."
"I'm sorry." He exhales, already fading again. "He sucks."
"Great. Can't wait."
"Just be yourself." A beat. "Well. The most polished version of yourself possible."
My eyes open in the dark. He doesn't seem to notice what he's said. His arm is heavy across my waist now, his breathing already evening out.
Meanwhile, I can't sleep because I feel like a prized calf being walked out at auction. Moo.
This is it. Dinner with Dean. The father Asher clearly has a less than ideal relationship with. The billionaire mastermind behind Ancre, the world's top cybersecurity program. The man his son described as being a killer. Metaphorically, but still. Not great.
We’re dining at Canlis, which is someplace I never thought I’d be lucky enough to go. I’m wearing a vintage Calvin Klein cocktail dress. Black, sleeveless, knee length, with a belt. Classic gold hoops at my ears. My blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, my makeup natural. I look elegant. Clean lines, quality fabric, timeless enough that no one can accuse me of looking like a ho.
So, yay for being not ho-adjacent, at least in my appearance. But that is not settling my nerves at all. Only now am I starting to wonder if Asher kept me from his father until now for a reason. That should've been a red flag. I was too busy being in love to notice.
The hostess leads us upstairs to a private dining room. High ceilings, cream tablecloth, candles already lit. The windows overlook the water, the city lights reflecting off the surface. It's beautiful and romantic, save for the man standing at the head of the table.
Dean Stevens looks like Asher will in thirty years. Same blonde hair, same sharp jawline, same height. But where Asher's blue eyes are warm, Dean's are calculating. Where Asher smiles easily, Dean's mouth is set in a line that suggests frequent smiling is something other people do.
He's wearing an obviously bespoke suit. His watch catches the light. Patek Philippe, I think. Everything about him says hehas more money than I can imagine and would prefer I never forget it.
"Asher." Dean's voice is deep, authoritative. There is no warmth to it. He doesn't move to hug his son. Instead, he extends a hand.
"Father." Asher's voice is different. Tighter. More formal. He shakes his father's hand and then gestures to me. "This is Julie Nelson."
Dean turns to me, and I feel his gaze sweep over me. No, not sweep. Assess. Like he's checking me against a list only he can see. Finally, he nods.
"Julie." He takes my hand. His grip is firm, almost aggressive. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
There’s censure in his tone, but I know it’s not directed at me because it's Asher he who gets a frosty glance.
"You too, Mr. Stevens."
"Dean, please." He releases my hand and gestures to the table. "Sit. I took the liberty of ordering wine."
