Library Ashford Novels & Stories

That the Ashford name stood regardless of what I had done to it. I did not accept that declaration. The engines started. The cabin vibrated with the low steady sound of power building. I looked out the window as the aircraft began to move toward the runway. Toronto sliding past. The city gray and flat in the early morning light. I had been away long enough. The market update sat on the table. Ashford Culinary Group's strongest quarter in a decade. Kate Ashford celebrated in every industry publication. James Ashford's retirement was described as a triumphant handover to the next generation.

I don't even blink as Landon Pierce slams the heavy brake of the Blackwood Range Rover, the tires screeching against the rain-slicked pavement right outside the underground entrance of the Crownvale Moon clinic. Across the marble threshold of the Blackveil District's most notorious clinic, half a dozen rogue enforcers from the Ashford Pack stand guard. Their claws are already half-sheathed, their eyes glowing faint amber under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. They aren't doctors. They are muscle, sent by Malcolm Ashford to make sure whoever tried to undo his orders pays in blood.

"The... the dispatch... already reached the southern lords. The seal is broken. The pack is already bleeding from the inside out." Maya stepped forward, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her face remained a mask of cold, unyielding iron. She knelt beside the struggling elder, her dark eyes reflecting the dying sparks of the short-circuited terminal. She didn't flinch from the violence; she had lived among the ashes long enough to welcome it. "The only thing bleeding today, Torin, is your conspiracy," Maya said, her voice cutting through the hum of the failing electronics with a chilling clarity. "Operation Ashfall wasn't authorized by an Alpha. It was engineered b

Four years had transformed the rocky shores of Ashford from a quiet coastal refuge into the pulsating heart of a maritime empire. Where raw, black cliffs once took the brunt of winter Atlantic storms, deep-water berths now cut into the shoreline, crowded with massive international container ships bearing the silver-and-navy banner of Ashford Global. I stood behind the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of my corner suite, watching a cargo freighter from Rotterdam glide into position with effortless precision.

Alaric asked, already reaching for the list they had compiled together before the coronation. "Lord Ashford, Lady Rensley, and Lord Petrov." Seraphine's expression tightened further. "Ashford in particular concerns me. He has extensive trading interests along the western border, close enough to Lord Malachi's estate that a change in his loyalties could easily be explained by simple commercial pragmatism rather than genuine political shift, which makes it considerably harder to challenge him directly without appearing paranoid."

Now that's settled, let's focus back on why a certain goddess wasn't at all reaching out to me. But before that, "And Sir," Tom interrupted, handing out another folder again. "This is the breakdown of what you requested. I fished through their website, and special displays, only these were found under the name; Alma Ashford." Hmm. "Good." I commented, taking that from his hands, flipping it open and seeing just what was displayed. The pictures of the pieces. Quite a solid line she's made for herself at Ashford Jewelleries. Dating back to at least 3 years ago.

Ash’s POV The roar of the clubhouse hit me before I even turned off my engine. Laughter, shouts and the sound of bottles clinking rent the air and for a moment, I wonder how they could easily fall back into their normal lives less than twelve hours after an attack. It was chaos the way I remembered it, but somehow louder and more… non challant. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. A few brothers cheered when they saw me, others nodded, their eyes sharp, reading me like they weren’t sure what version of Ash had come back.

​Subject: Appointment Letter - Ashford Art Group ​Dear Ms. Spring Willow, ​We are pleased to inform you that you have been appointed as an Artist-in-Residence at the Ashford Art Gallery, under the Ashford Art Group. Your portfolio has been reviewed by our board, and we find your technique exceptional... ​“Hah...” I breathed out. I read the words again. And again. “Am I seeing things?” ​The Ashford Art Group was one of the most renowned names in the global art scene. To even get a viewing there was a dream for most painters; to be appointed as an Artist-in-Residence was like being handed a golden ticket to another world.

“The Langfords are pushing back, hard. A few of their board members and silent partners have started pulling strings behind the scenes. There’s talk about them trying to tank the upcoming port contract with Westwell Group as a statement.” He raised a brow but said nothing. She continued. “It’s their way of expressing ‘displeasure,’ apparently. The fact that you attended the banquet with Vera instead of Sarah didn’t go unnoticed. They’re saying you’ve embarrassed them publicly. That you disrespected the arrangement.” There it was. Asher took the file, flipping through it with idle fingers, his expression unreadable, except for that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that refused to leave

Idaliah flashed her a tearful smile, closed her eyes and bowed her head with her right hand on her chest. Speechless, Adeline stood up, but she only stood there, her hands shaking and chest burning as the chains shook with kneels after kneels that followed when Idaliah herself kneeled. She absentmindedly looked around and found fifty hearts offered and fifty heads lowered for her. "Alpha."