Inheritance ✔

Chapter 1 - Public Image

Laurier Ashford

The camera flashes outside the gala were relentless. I didn't flinch. I knew where to turn, how to smile. Years of exposure turned me into a living billboard of elegance. One calculated glance over the shoulder, a subtle arch of my spine—just enough to keep the tabloids curious and the investors convinced I was in control of everything.

I walked past the red velvet ropes without missing a beat, heels clicking on marble. My driver opened the door, and I slid into the backseat of the Maybach like I belonged there—because I did.

Renzo joined me seconds later, smooth as ever. Black suit, dark tie, perfectly emotionless face. His hair was neatly pushed back, no strand out of place. His phone was already in his hand, thumbs tapping away at something urgent, no doubt. He didn't even glance at me.

"Let me guess," I said, smoothing my dress over my thighs. "He called the press."

"Yes," Renzo answered without looking up. "And leaked the hotel surveillance footage."

"Of course he did," I muttered. I couldn't even remember the guy's name. Derek? Damien? Something with a D. He'd been loud in bed and even louder after I left. I could already imagine his voicemail: 'You'll regret this.'

I wouldn't. I never did.

"And?" I asked, resting my elbow on the armrest and turning slightly toward Renzo. "Was it damaging?"

"Not yet. I offered him a settlement before we left the venue. Legal's drafting the papers. I've already alerted PR to prepare a statement—something about your dedication to transparency and female empowerment."

"Good boy." I grinned.

That got his attention. He lifted his eyes and locked them on mine, jaw tight. "I'm not your dog, Laurier."

There it was. That flicker of something beneath his calm exterior—sharp, contained frustration. He only let it slip when I pushed a little too hard. And sometimes, I did it just to feel something.

"You clean up after me. What would you call it?"

He didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered for a beat longer than necessary before he looked back down at his phone. "I call it a job. One I do because no one else will deal with the consequences of your choices."

I leaned back, resting my head on the seat. "I make it exciting."

"You make it dangerous."

The car pulled up in front of my building, sleek and towering in the middle of the city skyline. A few photographers were still camped outside. I let Renzo step out first, then followed after him, pausing just long enough to let them get the shot. The slit of my dress shifted with the wind, revealing the full length of my leg. One flashbulb popped. Then another.

Perfect.

I didn't wait for Renzo. He'd handle the driver, check the perimeter, do what he always did—manage me. I walked through the lobby, heels echoing across polished marble. Security greeted me, bowed slightly. I didn't smile. I didn't have to.

The elevator was empty. Just how I liked it. I hit the top floor. My penthouse.

Behind me, just before the doors slid shut, Renzo stepped inside. He held my clutch in one hand and my coat in the other. Always the professional. Always prepared.

"You didn't have to bring those," I said, folding my arms.

"I always do," he replied.

"You hate me tonight."

"I never said that."

"But you're thinking it."

He glanced at me, then looked away. "I'm thinking you're reckless. I'm thinking you don't care who you drag down with you."

"You volunteered for this job, Renzo."

He turned toward me, jaw clenched. "You think that's what this is? Volunteering?"

The elevator dinged. My floor.

I stepped out and turned to face him, my voice smooth. "Don't be dramatic. You're always there."

The doors closed before he could say anything else.

I walked into the penthouse and kicked off my heels. Everything inside was clean, modern, sterile—black counters, white walls, minimalist furniture. My assistant decorated it for me. I didn't care what it looked like as long as it wasn't cluttered.

The silence pressed in. I didn't like it, but I was used to it. I poured a glass of wine, sat on the edge of the couch, and stared at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows.

From the outside, everything looked flawless. Power. Prestige. The perfect woman at the top of her game. But inside... it was quieter.

And Renzo—Renzo was the only person who ever stepped into that silence.

He never touched me. Never tried. Never crossed a line, no matter how many times I flirted or tested him. He was always steady. Always reliable.

And that made me want to ruin him.

Because for all the men who had slipped into my sheets, into my bed, into my body, none of them had ever made me feel like this.

Only him.

And lately, I couldn't stop wondering... what would it take to make Renzo Hart lose control?