Chapter 4
1218words
My palms leave the steering wheel clammy and damp.
Take a breath. Just breathe.
Lowering my head, I shut my eyes and focus on the slow movement of air in and out of my lungs. This is my third attempt in the last ten minutes. It hasn't managed to calm me yet, but I can't think of anything better.
I could just drive away instead of facing Asher in person. The idea tempts me. Loosening my grip on the steering wheel, I push open my car door. As appealing as ghosting him sounds, it would mean losing my only chance to save the studio.
I have to be brave.
I can do this.
Adjusting my jean jacket over my knee-length tan sweater dress, I slip my phone, wallet attached, into my pocket. I doubt it'll be much help, but I've set my emergency contact to Adriana, not my mom. God forbid she finds out I'm in trouble; she'd have a fit. And involving the police would likely be a waste of time.
Adriana, though, would figure something out if I called her in a panic. She'd make Jonah move mountains to help me.
I hope it doesn't come to that.
Locking my car, I stride purposefully in my ankle boots towards Topher's. Unlike last night, there's no crowd of revelers lingering outside. That's one less obstacle for me to contend with.
Pushing open the heavy front door, I scan the lounge, searching for Asher. I'm a few minutes late for our meeting—I didn't want to seem too eager or desperate by arriving early.
He should already be here. Where is he? He's hard to miss. The man is like a walking refrigerator!
Topher's keeps the lighting low, but it's not pitch dark. Where could he be hiding? And why is it unusually quiet tonight? I count maybe five patrons at the bar and one sitting alone in a booth.
"Excuse me?"
Turning, I see the waitress from last night, her hair now styled in space buns. She's dressed the same as before, but there's a twitch in her smile, an edge to her demeanor.
"Oh, hey!" I greet her.
Her smile falters slightly at the corner. "He's waiting for you over there."
I don't need to ask who she means. Following her gesture, I spot the VIP section, cordoned off with a velvet rope. I've never been there before; it's reserved for big spenders who like to flaunt their wealth.
"Thanks," I murmur. "How long has he—" My question trails off as I watch her quickly retreat, almost as if she's afraid of me now. It's unsettling, especially considering how friendly she was last night.
What changed?
The nerves from earlier grip my heart again. Steeling myself, I walk stiffly into the VIP area. A thin curtain covers the doorway. Peeking through the gap, I see a large, rounded black leather couch. Asher sits in the center, legs spread wide, arms draped casually over the backrest. His posture exudes confidence and control. Unlike me, he didn't need to psych himself up in his car before coming inside. He's dressed impeccably in ash-gray slacks and a matching suit jacket, his chest adorned in a rich sienna shirt. If someone snapped a photo of him now, it could grace the pages of GQ magazine, earning millions in royalties.
He catches sight of me peering through the curtain. "Hello, Camila."
"Hi," I reply coldly. He chuckles, as if my demeanor amuses him. Letting the curtain fall back into place, I approach him cautiously. "You didn't need to book the VIP section. We're just here to discuss business."
'Business requires the right setting."
'Or you just want to show off how rich you are."
Lifting a dark eyebrow, he sits forward, elbows resting on his knees. 'Money is like the wind. You only feel it when it moves. Everything I do has a reason. You'd do well to learn that." His posture shifts, the friction making the prayer beads on his wrist slide into view.
If everything he does has a reason, then why did he kill that man? Forcing myself to look at his eyes, not the beads, I sit on the couch across from him. 'Let's just get this started."
'So eager." He reaches toward the low table to his right. There's a silver bucket on top. He throttles the neck of the champagne bottle inside, tipping it to pour the bubbling liquid into two glasses. 'Why don't we share a drink before we get to the grit?"
'If you're trying to woo me with your generosity, there are better ways."
Passing me the glass, he holds his near his lips. 'Such as?"
Lowering my head, I shut my eyes and try to focus on the steady rhythm of my breathing. This is the third time I've attempted this in the last ten minutes. It hasn't quite succeeded in calming me down yet, but I'm out of better ideas.
I could just drive away instead of facing Asher in person. The thought is tempting. Loosening my grip on the steering wheel, I push open my car door. As appealing as it sounds to ghost him, it would mean forfeiting my only shot at saving the studio.
I have to be brave.
I can do this.
Adjusting my jean jacket over my knee-length tan sweater dress, I slip my phone, wallet attached, into my pocket. I doubt it'll be much help, but I've set my emergency contact to Adriana, not my mom. God forbid she finds out I'm in trouble; she'd have a fit. And involving the police would likely be a waste of time.
Adriana, though, would figure something out if I called her in a panic. She'd make Jonah move mountains to help me.
I hope it doesn't come to that.
Locking my car, I stride purposefully in my ankle boots towards Topher's. Unlike last night, there's no crowd of revelers lingering outside. That's one less obstacle for me to contend with.
Pushing open the heavy front door, I scan the lounge, searching for Asher. I'm a few minutes late for our meeting—I didn't want to seem too eager or desperate by arriving early.
He should already be here. Where is he? He's hard to miss. The man is like a walking refrigerator!
Topher's keeps the lighting low, but it's not pitch dark. Where could he be hiding? And why is it unusually quiet tonight? I count maybe five patrons at the bar and one sitting alone in a booth.
"Excuse me?"
Turning, I see the waitress from last night, her hair now styled in space buns. She's dressed the same as before, but there's a twitch in her smile, an edge to her demeanor.
"Oh, hey!" I greet her.
Her smile falters slightly at the corner. "He's waiting for you over there."
I don't need to ask who she means. Following her gesture, I spot the VIP section, cordoned off with a velvet rope. I've never been there before; it's reserved for big spenders who like to flaunt their wealth.
"Thanks," I murmur. "How long has he—" My question trails off as I watch her quickly retreat, almost as if she's afraid of me now. It's unsettling, especially considering how friendly she was last night.
What changed?
