Ashley's POV
A week. That's how long it took for me to almost forget the stranger from the gala.
Almost.
He'd become a ghost stitched between my thoughts. A whisper when I closed my eyes. A burn I couldn't name. But I buried it — deep — because the last thing I needed was another secret in a family built on them.
The Walters and the Jeans weren't just rivals. We were blood-feud royalty.
Two empires carved out of the same ruthless industry — media and power — forever trying to outshine, outbuy, or outright destroy each other.
And yet, here I was, walking into a boardroom lined with both family crests. The meeting my father had called historic.
The irony burned.
My heels clicked against the marble floor as I followed him inside. Reporters weren't allowed, but tension was. It filled every inch of the room like smoke.
Marcus Walter — my father — stood at the head of the table, his expression cut from steel.
Opposite him was Charles Jean — Alan's father — wearing the same smug smirk I'd seen on magazine covers since I was old enough to read.
And beside him stood him.
Alan Jean.
Tall. Composed. Dangerous in that quiet, self-assured way that made people listen.
There was something about his presence that dragged the air tighter.
For a moment, I thought my pulse misfired.
No. Impossible.
He wasn't the man from that night. He couldn't be.
That man was faceless, voiceless, hidden behind a silver mask and darkness.
This one was all sharp lines and power. Untouchable.
So why did something deep in me recognize him — the shape of his jaw, the way he stood, even the faint scar near his collarbone that his open cuff revealed?
I forced myself to breathe and sat beside my father, pretending calm while chaos bloomed in my chest.
"Let's get one thing straight," my father began, his tone clipped. "This partnership isn't personal. It's business. The press will see it as reconciliation, but it's a calculated alliance. Nothing more."
Charles Jean smiled thinly. "Call it what you want, Marcus. The world will still talk."
The air tightened. Across from me, Alan's gaze flicked up. For a heartbeat, our eyes met — dark and unreadable. Then he looked away like I didn't exist.
Good.
That made one of us pretending well.
Leah Jean, his twin sister, sat beside him, watching everything with quiet amusement.
I could tell she didn't trust us — or maybe she just enjoyed the tension.
"So," Leah said lightly, "how do you plan to make this work without killing each other?"
I smiled politely. "Maybe we'll just kill the competition instead."
Her eyes glinted. "Same difference."
The conversation shifted to contracts, percentages, and projected revenue — words that filled the room but couldn't drown the undercurrent of old hatred.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed under the table. Richard.
I ignored it.
He'd been calling all week, his apologies more exhausting than his silence. I didn't want to talk about him. Not today.
Not when my focus was already slipping every time Alan spoke.
His voice — calm, low, steady — had a weight that drew attention. He spoke like someone used to being obeyed, and I hated that it made me listen.
When the presentation ended, our fathers rose simultaneously.
"Let's make it official," my father said. "A symbolic handshake. Our next generation leading the charge."
I froze.
Surely, he didn't mean—
He did.
Alan stood across the room, already extending his hand.
For the cameras that weren't even here. For the illusion of peace.
I pushed my chair back and stood, legs barely steady beneath my calm.
I reached out.
His hand closed over mine — firm, warm, electric. And then I saw it.
The cufflink.
Silver. Sleek. Polished.
Engraved with two letters.
A.J.
The same letters I'd seen that morning after the gala. The same ones I'd turned over in my fingers, trying to erase from my memory.
The room blurred. My breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.
It couldn't be.
It couldn't.
I forced myself not to move, not to flinch, not to let the realization shatter across my face.
Because standing here — smiling for our fathers, pretending for the cameras that weren't here — I realized something that made my skin crawl and my heart race at once.
The masked stranger I'd given myself to wasn't a nobody.
He was Alan Jean.
The enemy.
And as his thumb brushed the edge of my wrist, his eyes flicked down — just once — to the tattoo he'd traced that night.
His expression didn't change, but I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the faint tremor in his grip.
He knew too.
And neither of us could say a word.
The room erupted in applause — fake, polite, rehearsed — as our fathers shook hands like history hadn't just twisted itself into something cruel.
I smiled for the illusion, my pulse thundering behind my ribs.
Alan's fingers lingered for half a second longer before he let go.
That brief touch burned hotter than any sin I'd committed.
And in that moment, I knew one thing for sure —
This wasn't over.
This was only the beginning.