Asher's POV
"I will make sure this is the last time you ever try such rubbish," I whispered into his ear, my voice calm, yet laced with venom.
We were inside my warehouse, far from the city—my personal playground for handling betrayal. Out here, away from prying eyes, I dealt with problems the way they needed to be dealt with. As a businessman, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty.
Ronald was sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his face a bloody mess. His wrists were bound behind him, and his shirt was soaked in sweat and blood. He whimpered, his swollen lips trembling as he begged for mercy.
"Sorry, sir… please… forgive me," he choked out.
His pathetic pleading only fueled my rage.
"Ronald," I scoffed, stepping closer, towering over him. "You have the guts to ask for forgiveness? You didn't respect my boundaries when you drugged me, when you tried to use your sister to trap me."
I slammed my hand against the metal table, the sharp sound echoing through the warehouse. My chest heaved as the fury inside me burned hotter.
"You worked under me for five years. I fucking trusted you," I spat. "And the whole time, it was a facade. A game."
Ronald flinched at my words, but I wasn't done.
I clenched my fists, remembering how it all started. He had first suggested that I get married, that I "needed a woman by my side." I shut him down immediately. I had no interest in marriage. I had my reasons—reasons I never shared.
I had vowed never to let history repeat itself. Never again.
But this bastard didn't listen.
Two nights ago, he drugged my drink and sent his sister into my room. She was supposed to seduce me, to get pregnant with my child. And then? Then I would have no choice but to marry her.
The same fucking reason I didn't want to get married in the first place. A child.
The rage surged inside me again, hot and unforgiving.
"Please… forgive me," Ronald begged again.
"Don't fucking beg me, you motherfucker!" I snarled, my fist colliding with his already battered face. It was the thirtieth punch since we brought him in this morning, and yet, it still wasn't enough.
My breathing was heavy, but I wasn't finished.
"What if Arnoldo hadn't come in time to save me?" I hissed. "What if your plan had worked, and your sister actually got pregnant?"
I leaned down, my face inches from his.
"You wouldn't be apologizing, would you? You'd be blackmailing me into marrying her. And that—" I cracked my neck, exhaling slowly. "That was your terrible fucking mistake."
I straightened, running a hand through my hair.
"Thankfully, I don't hurt women," I added, my voice colder now. "But if I did… I would have ripped your sister's eyes out so she never saw a man again—let alone tried to trap one."
Ronald let out a strangled sob.
But I wasn't done talking.
I leaned back against the cold concrete wall, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette. My fingers found the familiar shape, and I pulled it out along with my lighter. The small flame flickered, barely illuminating the dimly lit warehouse. I took a slow drag, inhaling the toxic calmness, before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the damp air.
Then my eyes landed on Ronald, his body broken and bloodied on the floor.
"You know something, Ronald?" I mused, my voice eerily calm. "Had your sister gotten pregnant, I would have buried her six fucking feet underground with that child still in her belly... and I would have had you fed to the fishes."
A smirk curled at the corner of my lips as I took another drag. The fucker deserved worse.
This was my fifth cigarette since morning—an unhealthy habit, sure. But smoking was the only thing that kept me from snapping someone's neck every five seconds.
I turned my gaze to my men, who stood waiting for my next command. I took another slow drag, letting the smoke swirl in my lungs before I spoke again.
"Before this cigarette burns out, break his legs—both of them," I ordered, my voice devoid of emotion. "And do it in such a way that they can never be used again."
My guards exchanged glances before nodding, and in the next moment, they got to work.
Ronald's screams pierced the air, his cries of pain mixing with the sickening sound of bones snapping. He begged—pleaded—but I didn't even flinch.
I stood there, puffing on my cigarette, watching his useless body writhe on the floor. He should be grateful—if it had been me doing it, I would have removed his legs, hands, and fucking dick. Piece by piece.
By the time I finished my cigarette, Ronald was barely conscious, his legs twisted in unnatural angles. Useless.
My men never failed to follow orders.
I crouched beside him, blowing out the last puff of smoke in his face. "I swear to you," I whispered, my voice sharp like a blade, "if you ever try something like this again, you will beg me to kill you."
I stood up and gestured toward my men.
"Now, get this trash out of my sight."
Two guards grabbed his limp body, dragging him toward the exit. But before they could leave, something gnawed at me—unfinished business.
"Wait."
They stopped in their tracks. I took a slow, deliberate step toward Ronald.
I wasn't done yet.
I tilted my head, staring at his swollen face. The bastard owed me something.
I cracked my knuckles before landing a brutal slap across his already-battered face. A sickening crack followed as blood gushed from his nose and mouth.
"That," I said, wiping my hands on a handkerchief, "was for the slap you caused me."
Had he not tried escaping yesterday—forcing me into that damn fight in public—I wouldn't have been slapped by that crazy girl.
The memory of it pissed me off all over again.
"Fucking asshole," I muttered, tossing my cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath my boot.
As I turned away, Johnson, my most trusted guard, spoke up.
"What should we do about the girl from yesterday?" he asked.
I frowned, my mind drifting back to her—that insane woman who had dared to slap me.
"Let her be," I said, rubbing my temples.
But the truth was, I couldn't stop thinking about her. Even in my fucking dreams.
Last night, I had a dream—a strange, vivid nightmare.
The girl was there, feeding me fruit in a garden, her touch gentle. There was laughter, warmth—a strange sense of peace I hadn't felt in years.
Then, suddenly, she began to fade away.
I reached out, desperate to hold on, but she disappeared into thin air.
I woke up panting, sweat clinging to my skin. I tried to recall her face, but it was a blur—like a shadow in my mind.
My hands clenched into fists. Why the fuck was I dreaming about her?
"This has to do with her slapping me," I muttered under my breath. My mind wants her gone.
I shook the thought away and headed toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
The cold shower did little to calm the storm inside me.
I turned to Johnson.
"What time is it?" I asked, too lazy to check my own damn watch.
"Fifteen minutes to one," he answered.
I groaned, running a hand through my damp hair. Sunday. A day meant for rest, but here I was, handling betrayal and fucking nightmares.
"Let's leave for the house," I ordered, already making my way to the door.
Johnson hesitated. "Sir, the meeting?"
I stopped, considering it for all of two seconds.
"Cancel it."
A shrug. I couldn't care less.
Who the fuck schedules meetings on Sundays anyway?
Well, I did.
And I just canceled it.