Chapter 78

Chapter 78:

Ashton watched her bolt into the house, all flailing limbs and flushed cheeks.

He let out a short, low laugh.

Then he turned to Gino, who was still hovering by the car door. “Next time, don’t drive so bloody fast.” The driver nodded. “Yes, boss p>

He didn’t argue the obvious—that Ashton was usually the one barking at him to step on it.

He valued his job, and his kneecaps.

Ashton walked into the house, loosening his tie as he went. The living room was quiet.

Mirabelle was already upstairs.

Probably in her bedroom.

Probably thinking about the kiss.

He was.

Ashton took the stairs two at a time.

Would her door be locked?

Would she open it if he knocked?

His mind was already undressing her again—he hadn’t even taken off her shoes earlier, and the thought was driving him insane. He quickened his pace, rounding the corner.

His phone buzzed.

Ashton froze mid-step, jaw tightening.

He yanked the phone out of his pocket, saw the name flash on the screen, then glanced back at her door.

Then down at the raging hard-on in his trousers.

He let out a muttered curse, turned on his heel, and stalked to the study.

hosts the latest

The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

Inside, Ashton stood by the window, the overhead light catching the hard angles of his face.

He held the phone to his ear like he wanted to crush it. “What p>

“Where have you been? You’ve been dodging my calls all day,” Reginald snapped. “The Harbourview District mess. What are you planning to do about it? And when are you planning on notifying the board p>

“Harbourview’s not your concern,” Ashton said. “Stick to the branch office. You run Laurent City Estates, not LGH p>

“Don’t forget, I still hold shares in LGH. And Harbourview’s a major deal. I told you and that Langford boy—both too green, too eager—that this would blow up in your faces. Now look. I heard the scaffolding collapsed in the wind and hit a guard. If even I’ve heard of it, half the city probably has by now. Are you trying to get us sued p>

Ashton’s jaw flexed.

He thought of the hospital room. Fluorescent lights buzzing. The stench of antiseptic.

The dull beeping of machines doing what a broken body couldn’t.

Ramon Vega—thirty-four, married, father of two—had taken the full weight of a twisted scaffold bar across the side of his skull.

Skull fracture. Internal bleeding. Coma.

No prognosis yet.

“It wasn’t the wind,” Ashton said evenly. “I was on-site within the hour. That frame didn’t buckle from gusts. The welds gave out. Shit materials.” Someone had greased the wrong palm.

He’d known it the second he’d seen the bent beams.

Steel like aluminum foil. Cracks running through weld seams like veins in dry clay.

No way it was up to code.

He and Cassian had pulled an all-nighter, elbows deep in supplier logs, invoices, shipping manifests.

“Half the structure would’ve crumbled if someone sneezed,” Ashton said. “I shut it down. Full audit’s underway. We’re reordering materials. There will be delays p>

“Delays? You think the city will accept that p>

“They’ll have to. I’d rather take the hit on the timeline than have another body bag on-site. If that’s a problem for the board, they can bring it up at the next vote p>

Reginald simpered. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. If you can’t handle this, maybe I should come back and supervise p>

Ashton pinched the bridge of his nose.

The hard-on was long gone, and in its place, a headache was settling in nicely. “Sure. I’ll bring you back. You can personally check the stability of every single scaffolding pole. Daily p>

“What? I was thinking more of a management position p>

Reginald spluttered on the other end. “I’m your father! You think I’ve got the stamina for that kind of grunt work p>

“You wanted to be involved. I’m making that happen. I’ll have the appointment letter drafted by morning p>

“No-no, wait, forget it. I’m good where I am…” Reginald backpedaled fast.

He might’ve been arrogant, but he wasn’t suicidal.

One full day on-site, and he’d be carried out in a body bag—or at least a neck brace.

“This is a government project,” he switched tactics, his tone suddenly cautious. “The press already caught a whiff of it. Some trash blogs are reporting it. If this trends, the stock will drop. You should’ve killed the story the second it broke p>

Ashton’s patience snapped clean in half.

“My priority was keeping the man alive. If he dies, no headline in the world is big enough to bury that. And in case you missed it, I’ve already shut the story down. I’m tracking every post, every feed. I don’t need you playing PR consultant over the phone p>

He was about to hang up when Reginald whined, “You don’t respect me. Not a bit. Look how you talk to me p>

Ashton tilted his head, rolling his neck until it cracked. “How I talk to you depends on how you act. You get what you give.” Another beat of breathing. Then Reginald sighed.

“Forget it. Whatever. Anyway, we’ve been asking you to come back for dinner.

Not me—your grandfather. He asked for you himself. You ignoring him now too p>

“His birthday’s coming up. I’ll be there p>

“At least you’ve got some manners left p>

Ashton paused, then added flatly, “One more thing. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. I’m married. I’ll be bringing her with me. If anyone so much as pulls a face at her, I swear I’ll burn the place down with all of you still inside p>

He hung up before Reginald could open his mouth again.

His eyes shifted to the study door.

Three doors down was Mirabelle’s room.

She was in there.

Showering, maybe.

Or lying in bed, scrolling through videos.

Or… just sitting there, stewing, wondering why the hell he hadn’t come knocking yet.

He wanted to.

His body wanted to.

Every muscle was strung tight, like he’d just done a full set of deadlifts with no rest. The craving was physical now—crude, annoying, sharp-edged.

But—

He exhaled, as if trying to bleed the tension from his lungs.

Then he rang Cassian.

There was still work to clear.

Ramon Vega’s status needed following up.

Dominic had better have an update.

The legal team needed marching orders—start prepping charges for that rat bastard in procurement who’d pocketed kickbacks and ordered garbage-grade steel.

If criminal negligence didn’t stick, they’d find something else.

Truth was, he should’ve dealt with it all hours ago.

But Octavia Grey had given him one window—tonight or not at all. So he’d made the dinner happen.

And after what Mirabelle had pulled in the car—sliding into his lap like she lived there, mouth hot and greedy on his, fingers threading through his hair—yeah. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.