Asher stands with his back to me, broad shoulders encased in a white T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. His boots complete a look I know is designed entirely from utility. That’s what this man is made of, work and strength and determination. But around him… that’s a different story. There are paintings on every wall, some taller than me, all of them museum quality. The one he’s looking at is a painting of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom, the flowers swirling around, so lifelike you can almost smell the bitter sweet scent of them.
“We need to talk,” I say, stepping into the room. I’ve donned my armor in the form of clothes. I won’t be cowering in a towel for this conversation. And I’m not going to let him distract me with sex.
He turns, his eyes alight with amusement. “We can talk on the way to the worksite.”
I take a step forward. “Why do I need to come with you?”
“Because,” he says with exaggerated patience. “One fuck or two fucks, they aren’t going to pay for what your daddy owes me. It’s going to take a lot more than that.”
“So you want… what? An assistant.”
His laugh is molten steel. “Yes. Exactly. You’re going to assist me.”
“Bullshit. You want to show me off so the whole city knows my father owes you money. You want to humiliate my family, but I’m not going to let you do that.”
“You aren’t?”
“What kind of fool do you take me for? I’m not going to agree to any deal that’s indefinite or that harms our ability to do business in the future. If you want me to pay with my body? Fine. Then you tell me exactly how many nights it will take to work off the money.”
He turns to look back at the cherry blossoms. “It would have been easier for you if your father told you.”
Suspicion is a dark churn in my stomach. “Told me what?”
“That there’s no end date.”
“He wouldn’t have—” My throat is too tight to speak. He wouldn’t have made a deal like that, except I didn’t think he would make a deal like this either. I’m not sure what my father’s capable of anymore.
I look around the room with fresh eyes, seeing the incredible quality of artwork displayed here. Art I’ve seen in studios around the city. Artists I recognize who work out of New York City and London. He drives a completely ordinary truck. He wears ordinary clothes, but he has art like this hanging on his wall. This is the kind of wealth that isn’t meant to show off. It’s been spent on things he enjoys.
And I’m becoming very afraid that I’m his latest acquisition.
“What would my father have told me?” I ask, relieved that my voice doesn’t shake.
“This isn’t for one night. Or two.” He turns to face me, his expression grave. “It’s for your hand in marriage. We’re engaged, beautiful. We’re going to be married.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. “But that’s impossible.”
A humorless smile. “Because I’m a dirty construction worker and you’re the beautiful June Li?”
“My father would have told me that.”
“He was supposed to. And last night? I was going to have a conversation with you. Instead you acted like I was beneath the dirt on your shoes. And your father pretended like I was some kind of monster.”
My chest feels tight. “I didn’t know.”
“No. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault, but I suppose I felt like punishing you for that, so I acted like I was there to fuck you for a few thousand dollars a pop.” Another hollow laugh. “Of course, I didn’t realize that the scariest thing for you would be marriage to me.”
This is the man from my foyer last night, the one uncompromising and almost cruel. Part of me wants to reassure him. It comes from hurt, this coldness. Except what he’s saying is too true to deny. It is terrifying to realize I’ve been married away without my consent, in this century.
Terrifying that it could have happened without me even knowing.
Oh, I’m sure I could refuse to get married at the altar. I don’t think my situation is so far gone that I can’t. But what would I do if I’m not honoring my father? I’m supposed to be the good daughter. I’ve lost my family and my identity in one night.
“Let’s go,” Asher says, his voice like steel. He opens the front door and makes a mocking bow for me to step through. “It’s time to go to work.”
He means his worksite, where he shows up on time so his men don’t get the idea they can be late. And he also means work for me, because that’s what this marriage has become. My obligation. My duty. The only way to honor a heritage I believe in—to marry a man who sees me as an object to acquire.
