POV: Asher
Jackson had been watching me all day.
I felt those cold eyes tracking me through meetings, observing how I managed my department, cataloging every decision with that calculating assessment that had terrified me as a child. But somewhere around hour six, the watching changed. Became something closer to approval.
"You run a tight ship," Jackson said, appearing in my office doorway as the sun began to set. "I'm impressed."
"I do my job."
"You do more than your job. You do it well." He stepped inside without invitation, settling into the chair across from my desk like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. "The quarterly reports for your division are the only ones not bleeding red. That's not nothing."
I kept my expression neutral. Praise from Jackson always came with strings. "What do you want?"
"Dinner." His smile was almost warm. Almost. "Tonight. My villa. Cigars, whiskey, conversation. Like civilized men."
"I have work—"
"Work can wait. This can't." Jackson stood, smoothing his jacket with that precise elegance that made everything he did look rehearsed. "Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
He was gone before I could refuse.
The villa was obscene.
Marble floors that echoed with every footstep. Crystal chandeliers throwing fractured light across walls lined with art that belonged in museums. The kind of wealth that existed purely to remind visitors they'd never have enough.
Jackson met me at the door in casual clothes that probably cost more than my first car.
"Whiskey?" He held up a crystal decanter, amber liquid catching the light. "Thirty-year Macallan. Your mother's favorite."
The mention of her—dead fifteen years, reduced to a whiskey preference—made something cold settle in my chest. But I took the glass. Followed him to the study where cigars waited in a humidor that probably cost more than most people's houses.
We smoked in silence for a while. The ritual of it—cutting, lighting, the first slow draw—was familiar. Safe. One of the few things Jackson had taught me that didn't come wrapped in cruelty.
"Tell me about the girl," Jackson said eventually, smoke curling from his lips. "Jasmine."
"What about her?"
"You're fucking her. Along with your brothers." His tone was conversational, almost casual. Like we were discussing quarterly projections. "I'm curious what the appeal is."
I took a long drag on my cigar, buying time. "She's intelligent. Ambitious. Good at her job."
"I didn't ask for her resume." Jackson's eyes sharpened. "I asked what the appeal is."
The silence stretched. I watched smoke curl toward the ceiling and made a decision—one I'd been circling for weeks without admitting it.
"She means nothing to me."
Jackson's eyebrows rose. "Nothing?"
"She's a warm body. A pleasant distraction." I met his eyes without flinching. "Liam's the one who's in love with her. I'm just along for the ride."
The approval that crossed his face was immediate and unmistakable. Something in my chest loosened at the sight of it—that pathetic, starving part of me that had never stopped wanting this.
"Now that's interesting." Jackson leaned back, satisfaction radiating from every line of his body. "I was beginning to think all three of my sons had lost their minds."
"Liam and Finn have lost their minds. I'm just not willing to blow up my life over a woman who sells herself to the highest bidder."
"Smart boy." He studied me with new appreciation, like I'd finally become something worth looking at. "You know, you've always been different from your brothers. More pragmatic. More willing to see things clearly instead of drowning in sentiment."
"Someone has to be."
"Indeed." Jackson swirled his whiskey, ice clinking against crystal. "That's why I've always liked you best. Even when you were a child—so serious, so controlled. I knew you'd be the one who understood how the world actually works."
The words landed somewhere deep and hungry. I should have recognized the manipulation. Should have seen the strings being attached with every syllable.
Instead, I took another drink.
"She's going to choose Liam, you know." Jackson's voice was almost gentle now. Almost kind. "Women like that—they calculate. She's been with all three of you, testing the waters, figuring out which brother gives her the best position. Liam's the CEO. The public face. The golden boy." He shrugged elegantly. "You were never going to win that competition."
"I wasn't competing."
"Weren't you?" His smile was knowing. "Every man competes, Asher. The question is whether you're honest enough to admit it."
The words settled into my chest like stones. Because maybe I had been competing. Maybe I'd been waiting to see if Jasmine would choose me—the difficult one, the cold one, the one who kept everyone at arm's length.
And maybe the answer had always been obvious.
"She's not worthy of you," Jackson continued. "A woman who auctions herself online, who spreads her legs for three men simultaneously—that's not someone who deserves a Blackwood. That's someone who uses Blackwoods to climb."
"I know."
"Good." He reached for the decanter, poured us both another measure. "Then you'll understand what I'm about to offer."
I waited. The fire crackled. Somewhere outside, a car passed on the distant road.
"London." Jackson set down the decanter with a soft clink. "Our European expansion needs leadership. Real leadership, not the incompetent middle management we've been sending." He met my eyes. "The position is yours if you want it. Full authority, corner office, a chance to build something that's actually yours instead of living in Liam's shadow."
London.
Thousands of miles from this mess. From the woman I'd convinced myself meant nothing. From the brothers who'd always seen me as the cold one, the difficult one, the one who didn't quite fit their golden family portrait.
"Think about it." Jackson's voice was smooth as the whiskey burning down my throat. "You don't have to decide tonight. But I think we both know what the smart choice is."
I looked at the fire. At the smoke rising from my cigar. At the man who'd spent my entire life making me feel like I wasn't enough—and who was now, finally, offering me a way out.
"I'll consider it."
"That's all I ask." Jackson raised his glass. "To clarity things as they actually are."
I lifted mine in return. The crystal rang when they touched.
We finished our cigars in companionable silence, and I realized this was the first time in my adult life I'd felt like my father actually saw me. Like I wasn't just the middle son, the difficult one, the problem to be managed.
It should have felt like a trap. But it felt like freedom.