Claimed At First Sight

CHAPTER 7: FATE IT SEEM

Dashiell Pierson didn't look up when his office door opened.

He knew who it was. Travis Stone, his assistant, right-hand man, and close friend, had a specific knock style: two sharp raps followed by immediate entry. No one else in Pierson International had the balls to walk into Dashiell's office without waiting for permission.

"We have a problem," Travis said without hesitation.

That made Dashiell pause, his pen stilling over the document he has been reviewing. Travis didn't use the word "problem" lightly. Issues, complications, inconveniences, sure. But problems? Those were reserved for situations that required Dashiell's personal attention.

He set down his pen carefully and leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. "Explain."

Travis crossed the room, tablet in hand, his expression grim as ever. "Marcus is stirring up trouble."

Dashiell's brow furrowed. "Marcus?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar, like something he'd heard in passing but hadn't bothered to pay attention to; however, for Travis to mention that name, it had to be one he should recall. Dashiell had a notoriously poor memory for names, specifically, names of people who didn't matter. People who hadn't left an impression enough for him to remember them.

It drove business associates insane. They would introduce themselves at galas, shake his hand, exchange pleasantries, and then a week later, he would have no idea who they were.

They had called him rude behind his back for it, but Dashiell had called it efficient, as he didn't owe strangers the mental storage to keep their names.

Travis, well-versed in his boss's selective memory, didn't waste time explaining. "Marcus Pearson has been spreading rumours," Travis said, his tone clipped and professional. "He's been telling people that Miss Sutton is 'easy.' That she slept with him." He completed with a blank expression.

Dashiell went very still.

Reign.

The name cut through the fog instantly, and immediately, he remembered who Marcus was.

Marcus Pearson. The struggling CEO he had paid half a million dollars to skip a blind date and disappear. The man who was supposed to take the money, sign the NDA, and fade into irrelevance. However, apparently, Marcus hadn’t gotten the memo.

Dashiell's jaw tightened.

"How far has it spread?" His voice was calm. Way too calm for how hard his expression had turned.

Travis, however, recognized that tone. It was the same tone Dashiell used right before he dismantled a competitor's business piece by piece.

"Not far," Travis said carefully. "The rumours haven't left Marcus's immediate circle. Most of his associates don't believe him, apparently, he has a history of exaggerating his... exploits."

Dashiell's fist clenched on the armrest of his chair.

A history of this?

He had noticed the man to be lousy and money hungry, but he hadn't....

He exhaled, "Does she know?" he asked quietly, referring to Reign.

"I don't believe so,” Travis said. “Miss Sutton hasn't been in Marcus's social circles; she hasn’t been a social butterfly to have encountered the rumours, and the people who have heard the rumours seem to be dismissing them as another one of his lies."

Dashiell's knuckles went white.

It didn't matter that no one believed Marcus. It didn't matter that Reign didn't know.

What mattered was that Marcus had dared to speak her name at all. He had dared to lie about her, to reduce her to a piece of gossip for drunken bragging rights or whatever it was.

Dashiell had paid him beautifully and expected him to vanish and deal with his family, but what he didn’t expect was for him to devalue Reign. What was his motive? To draw him out for more money, or Reign?

None of that mattered anymore.

"Where is he now?" Dashiell's voice was icy cold.

Travis shifted a foot as he said. "The Gilded Tap. One of your anonymous bars on the Southside. He's been there since six."

Dashiell glanced at his watch. 8:52 PM.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face.

Perfect.

He stood, buttoning his suit jacket with unhurried movememts. "Clear my schedule."

Travis nodded and pulled out his phone, already typing a message to Dashiell's secretary.

Dashiell, on the other hand, walked around his desk, his mind sharp and focused. Marcus Pearson was about to learn a very important lesson about the cost of lying.

As he reached for his coat, his eyes caught on something lying on the side of his desk.

It was a handkerchief. Small, faded white, worn and frayed at the edges from years of being carried, folded, unfolded, touched and washed.

Dashiell paused, his hand hovering over it for a moment before he picked it up, his thumb brushing over the soft fabric, and a sad smile ghosted his lips. Just like that, a memory surfaced, washing over his senses.

…..

Four years ago.

The cemetery had been suffocating with too many people, too many voices, and too many eyes on him, watching him too closely, like they were waiting for him to break.

It had been his brother’s funeral after all. His older brother. His rock. The one person he had always leaned on without question.

Soren.

And somehow, Dashiell was expected to stand there and accept it all, the handshakes, the draining “I’m sorry for your loss,” and the insincere sympathy that barely reached their eyes. Some of them even introduced themselves, smiling too much and speaking too cautiously, as if this were a business event rather than a funeral. After all, he was the next in line as heir to Pierson International.

Dashiell had endured it for an hour, until the coffin was opened. And...everything fell apart.

The scream came from their mother. It was raw and loud. It didn’t sound like something a person should be able to make. It tore through the air so suddenly that Dashiell froze, his body going rigid before his mind could catch up.

His eyes moved to the coffin, and then they stopped, locking on his brother, who lay there in the coffin in a black suit and a crooked red tie, still and pale, completely lifeless.

Dashiell couldn’t tear his gaze away until another scream followed, louder this time, breaking whatever had been holding him in place.

He stumbled back, his breath catching sharply in his throat, and before he even realized what he was doing, he turned and ran.

He didn’t think. He didn’t even look back. He just ran past the crowd, past his family, past the perfectly manicured lawn and the rows of expensive headstones.

His hands came up to his ears as he ran, pressing hard, but it didn’t help to muffle the screams. The screams were still there. Too loud, and they wouldn’t stop.

His breathing started to change. It started to become short and uneven, like his lungs couldn’t decide how to work anymore. He tried to take in a full, deep breath, but it didn’t work. His chest tightened instead, the pressure building so fast it made his steps falter, yet he kept running until his foot caught against a root, and suddenly he was on the ground.

Dashiell didn’t register the pain that shot through his knees as they hit the hard stone floor, as his focus was on the tightness in his chest, the air that refused to go in properly, the sound of his mother’s scream, and the people yelling echoing in his head.

Dashiell pressed his hands harder against his ears, curling slightly into himself as his breathing grew more frantic. He tried to steady it, to slow it down, but it only got worse. Each breath came quicker than the last, like he wasn’t getting enough air, no matter how hard he tried.

His chest hurt.

His head felt light.

Everything around him started to blur with tears and lack of proper respiration.

Then, out of nowhere, something grabbed him. Hands, maybe, shaking him, and muffled words that sounded like…

“Hey….look at me.”

But Dashiell didn’t react; he didn’t even notice until the grip tightened and his head was forced upward.

And then…

He saw her.

Her eyes were the first thing he noticed.

Hazel.

A mix of gold and green that changed with the light filtering through the trees above them, shifting just beautifully and hypnotising enough to make it hard to look away.

And slowly, without him realising when it started, his breathing began to ease.

Not completely, but enough for the tightness in his chest to loosen just a little, and the noise in his head to quiet.

“Are you okay?” Her voice, soft and tentative, snapped Dashiell from his daze, and he jerked away from her, glaring hard.

“Who the f**k are you?” His voice, though hoarse, was sharp and cutting.

The girl didn’t take offence; instead, she stepped closer and pulled a handkerchief from her small black purse.

"Here," She held it out. "You look like you need this more than I do." She said, making a circle around her face.

It was there that Dashiell realised his face wasn’t only filled with tears; it was smeared with snort as well.

Heat rushed up his neck, flooding his face until it burned with embarrassment. He snatched the handkerchief from her and quickly turned his back to clean the mess. However, the girl, seeming to be in her early twenties, didn’t seem to be bothered. Instead, she had done something unexpected.

She sat down beside him.

"I'm sorry," she had said softly. "For your loss."

He had eyed her then and asked. "Did you know him?"

"No." Her voice had been gentle and sad. "But I know what it's like to lose someone. And I know that sometimes... sometimes you just need to sit and breathe, and let yourself feel it."

Then, they had sat in silence.

She hadn't asked questions or tried to fill the quiet with meaningless words. She had just... been there while he dug holes into the handkerchief, letting his tears fall quietly.

When his breathing had finally steadied, when the tightness in his chest had loosened, he had looked up to thank her, but then she was gone. He was lost in his own sorrow that he hadn’t noticed when she slipped away.

Present day.

Dashiell stared down at the handkerchief, his thumb tracing the worn fabric, a smile ghosting his lips.

Four years later, he had seen her photo in the file Soren had compiled on the Sutton family.

Reign Sutton.

That was her name.

The girl with the hypnotising hazel eyes.

The girl who had sat with him in silence, lending him her delicate shoulder while he fell apart.

Fate had brought her back to him, and he wasn’t going to joke with it.

His jaw tightened as his mind snapped back to the present.

Marcus Pearson.

He had dared to spread lies about her, tarnish her name for the sake of his own bruised ego. Well, he is about to feel the burn of his action.

Dashiell's grip on the handkerchief tightened.

"Sir?" Travis's voice cut through his thoughts. "The car is ready."

Dashiell blinked, pulled from the memory. He nodded absently and slipped the handkerchief into his jacket pocket, right over his heart.

"Let's go," he said quietly, rounding his desk.

As they walked side by side toward the elevator, Dashiell's expression was cold and controlled, but his mind was raging with fury.

Fate had given him Reign.

And fate, it seemed, was also allowing him to make Marcus Pearson regret every word that had come out of his mouth.

"Guess fate has its own way of paving paths," Dashiell murmured under his breath as the elevator doors closed, wondering when Reign would realize who he is.

His jaw clenched.

But for tonight, Dashiell thought to himself, he was going to dig a hole so deep into Marcus's skull that the man would never forget the name, Reign Sutton.

And he was going to enjoy every second of it.