Library Ashford Novels & Stories

But I recognized the dress. "—daughter of Richard and Genevieve Ashford, caught entering the notorious Crimson Thorn nightclub—" The anchor's voice sharpened into focus. "—the Ashford family, known for their import-export business, has seen stock prices plummet following the scandal. Sources say federal investigators have been circling the company for months, and this latest embarrassment may have accelerated their timeline—" I'd seen scandals before. In my world, they were currency—weapons to be deployed against enemies, leverage to be hoarded for the right moment. The wealthy played dirty. Everyone knew that.

I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. She paused, then smiled knowingly. “The Ashford lineage traces back to Domburton, their roots are very old and prestigious. Your grandparents, the original Ashfords, are still alive. You’ll meet them tonight. They host these assembly parties regularly to ensure the family remains united. Five children, all boys—imagine the competition among them!” I blinked, absorbing every detail. “And Edward is the eldest?”

But I would beat him down the way I did Mr Henderson. "Remember, Kassidy," David muttered as we stepped out into the reception hallway. "Ashford Holdings is looking for efficiency. They want to make sure we know our onions, so, be prepared for a tough crowd." "I am always prepared, David," I replied and he smiled reassuringly.

"The Vanguard Trust currently holds eleven point four percent of Ashford Group's outstanding debt, acquired legally, quietly, and entirely within the boundaries of every regulation your legal team is welcome to review." "This is absurd," Eleanor snapped. "Roman, tell me you're not going to sit here and let your ex-wife—" "Sit down, Mother," Roman said, his eyes never leaving Vivienne. "Let her speak." Vivienne's gaze flicked briefly toward him, unreadable, before she continued. "Ashford Group's aggressive expansion into three international ports has strained your cash reserves beyond what your current debt structure can safely support. The trust is prepared to convert a portion of its holdin

he said in a tone husky with amusement. “Um, hi…hello,” she answered. Nice, Sandra, she scolded herself. If that didn’t make her sound like an uneducated country hick, she didn’t know what would. “I’m Creighton Ashford,” he said in a deep British accent. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit here.” She chanced a closer look at him as he reclined in the lounge chair, thankful she was still wearing her Ray-Ban’s. Damn, he was handsome.

She knew which version of history she intended to write. “Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Ashford.” Her voice cut through the silence with surgical precision. “Your offer isn’t just inadequate – it’s insulting.” She set the pen down with a soft click that echoed in the tensed silence. “And I don’t respond well to insults.” The legendary Victor Ashford, known as the terror of Wall Street and breaker of boardrooms, shifted uncomfortably in his four-thousand-dollar chair. His crisp collar, which had been immaculate just moments before, now felt like it was strangling him.

She did not want to waste her chance roasting the man who cheated on her best friend. "You mean you're that Ash-" "Yes... He's that Ashton Grey. The one that owned that big fashion company. AG Atelier, remember? The company used to hold a lot of design contests for art students before. Ashley and I used to participate in those contests before and we often told you that, you know... What a turn of events, Ashley ended up marrying the owner of that company," Hana kept roasting the guy harshly.

“Don’t tell me you also want to fire me, because that one, I will never accept.” For a brief second, Winston simply stared at her, tension flickering across his face. Then he sighed. “Fine. Then I wish you speedy recovery.” He reached for the door handle without another glance. “See you later.” The door clicked shut behind him. Vindell’s POV In a well furnished bedroom, Mrs. Ashford reclined against the mountain of pillows, her figure almost swallowed by the enormous bed. She held a crystal glass delicately between her fingers, taking slow sips of water as her gaze wandered toward the four maidens standing in perfect line before her. Clad in matching black gowns with crisp white aprons tied

Alan said. I picked up a pen. "The Ashford Foundation," I said. "Funded by the trust assets that weren't already redirected to survivors. Dedicated to advocacy for people who've experienced institutional abuse. Research into trauma recovery. Legal support for survivors seeking accountability." I looked at him. "Built in the name of the thing that tried to destroy me. Pointed in the opposite direction." Alan looked at the document. Then at me. "That's not erasing the name," he said. "That's reclaiming it."

The room does not move. Ashford holds his expression with the disciplined composure of a very good barrister who has just been handed a worse position than the one he started with and cannot afford to show it. He asks two more questions. Neither of them lands. He sits down. I look at Adrian. He is looking at Margaret.