Novel & Cerita Library Ashford

The forest design and the letter A look a little faded, but the rest of Astrid’s name is a shade darker, like it’s a fresh addition. “When did you do that?” Jax asks, leaning forward and squinting his eyes to study the ink. Brock shrugs as he drops his shirt back down. “Few weeks ago. She already owns me, so I thought I might as well make it official.” “You guys are fuckin’ saps,” I chuckle, taking another sip of my coffee. It’s finally cooled down enough to not sear the shit out of my tongue. “Just you wait,” Gray quips, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"But who will do it if we don't?" When the night of the gala arrived, the gloom underneath was concealed by a façade of luxury. With their formal clothing hiding their tools of the trade, Olivia, Mira, and Asher blended in seamlessly with the crowd. With its sleek lines and glass facades reflecting the event's brilliant lights, the property was a modern architectural wonder. Asher slipped away first, his job to disable key security systems. Olivia and Mira followed soon after, making their way toward the server room disguised as waitstaff. Every step was calculated, every action rehearsed.

Once he was done, Asher sighed deeply, feeling an excitement boil in his chest, as he couldn't wait to welcome his son home. Asher's eyes looked out the nursery's window. The sun had begun setting in the west, and in the east, the full, grey moon began rising above the clouds. Standing at the second story of his mansion, Asher could see over the pine trees of the forest that bordered the east end of his pack grounds. He approached the window and looked out onto the world before him. Birds could be heard singing their last tunes for the day. Asher looked down on the village area below him. The children were being called in by their mothers as the evening began settling its dark shade in the s

If the rumours are true, I know Asher must have some. "You know the immortal lands are no place for her," Asher mutters in reply, turning his back as of to expel all of the conversation. It left an awkward air between us, even as Aspen continues to fight his brother, who has walked to a cupboard hitched up on the wall. He opens it, pulling out a small crystal glass and an unfamiliar type of alcohol in a blue bottle. "She can help us, you know that," Aspen exasperates. Asher doesn't say anything, as he pours a drink, and turns back around. His persona from serious, has molded into one of amusement, as his eyes gleam testily.

"We tell him Jordan had a minor disagreement with his Alpha. We tell him the boy is blowing off steam. You will smile, you will play the devoted fiancée, and you will keep your father’s nose out of my territory while I finish cleaning up this mess." Heavy, measured footsteps sounded in the marble corridor. "He is here," Victoria whispered, smoothing the front of her blazer. Lord William Ashford stepped through the open doorway. He was a tall, imposing aristocrat with silver hair and a tailored charcoal suit that smelled overwhelmingly of expensive cigars and old money. His sharp blue eyes instantly swept the room, taking in the splintered furniture and the shattered fireplace. "Magnus," Lord

I read a paragraph near the middle of the piece three times. Ashford has the quality of someone who has been performing composure for so long that the performance has become its own kind of truth. But there are moments, brief and quickly recovered, where the performance pauses, and what you see underneath it is not vulnerability exactly, but something more interesting: the face of a person who is still surprised that she made it here, who is still, somewhere underneath the polish, the girl from Queens who decided to be someone and cannot quite believe it worked. Those moments are when she is most herself. And most beautiful. I set the tablet down.

He opened a folder with four dossiers. NICHOLAS ASHFORD (42) — Cold enough to be intimidating even in a photograph. CEO of Ashford Capital with a net worth that made Aria's brain hurt trying to conceptualize it. Self-made billionaire. No public relationships. The dossier described him as "exacting," "precise," and "intolerant of mediocrity." The photo showed a man with dark hair silvering at the temples, sharp features, eyes that looked like they calculated every variable in a room.

"Of course. Ms. Winters. Let me explain your inheritance." He slid documents across his mahogany desk. Pages and pages of legal text. "The Ashford Family Trust was established in 1952 by your great-grandfather. Currently, it holds seventy-three million dollars in liquid assets. Additionally, you inherit a twenty-three percent stake in Ashford Industries, valued at approximately one hundred and twelve million dollars." My stomach dropped. "One hundred and twelve million?" "Yes. Combined, your total inheritance is one hundred and eighty-five million dollars." The room tilted slightly.

“He’s not my concern.” That wasn’t entirely true. But she would never allow Tristan to become the center of her life again. He would become a project. Not a wound. “Very well,” her father said. “Your appointment will be announced at noon.” — The press conference room was filled before she arrived. Medical journalists. Investors. Board members. Cameras flashing. Ashford Medical Group was not a small name. It was one of the largest private healthcare conglomerates in the region. And for the first time publicly—

The gala invitation arrived three days later, gold-embossed and utterly ordinary — a Milan charity auction Voss Enterprises sponsored every year, the kind of event that had gone on without Alex's full attention for over a year now while everyone assumed distraction, not war. "It's perfect," Alex said, turning the card over at the breakfast table. "The Board watches this event every year. Half their laundered money moves through the bidding. If Valentino wants to send a message without firing a shot, this is where it gets sent."