Wreckage
They say men love hard.
But they love lust harder.
It's easy to confuse the two. A lingering gaze, a whispered promise. And a touch that trails fire down the spine. Lust wears love's mask so well that even the most disciplined hearts forget the difference, until it's too late.
Jade Sinclair knows this better than anyone else. As a high-end intimacy therapist for the elite, she has seen what lies beneath power, status, and seduction. She has grown cold to it all. S*x is currency. Intimacy, a transaction. And Love? An obvious fantasy: they dress up in champagne and orgasms.
But when she's assigned to him, the tech billionaire and scandal king. With a reputation as filthy as the fantasies he inspires. Jade is forced to confront the boundaries she has kept airtight for years.
Because Asher doesn't want to fixed. He wants her. And when lust becomes personal, even the strongest lose control.
♥♥♥♥♥
7:30 am
Asher's Apartment
He loved the silence after s*x. Obviously not the awkward kind, cluttered with questions and clumsy exits. No. He liked the afterglow, when bodies still buzzed and nothing real had to be said. The girl curled beside him on his king-sized bed was gorgeous. Blonde, bronzed, and already fading into memory. Her name might've been Lila, Layla. Or Lana. Maybe something French. All the same, it didn't matter. Because she was never meant to stay.
A lazy hum came from her throat as her fingers trailed down his chest, soft and possessive in that post-climax haze. She smelled like s*x and champagne. The kind of perfume made for sheets, not the streets.
Asher reached for his phone on the nightstand, its screen lit by the city lights pouring in through the penthouse windows. His screen blinked to life just as her fingers began tracing lazy circles on his chest.
1 New Message – Reese (Work)
Without hesitation, he clicked its content opened. "You're done with your nightly acrobatics? Because the board is on fire. You're late. And HR is not laughing." It read.
He smirked, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. Just before he could reply, another buzz came through.
Reese: You've been assigned a therapist. Real one. Zero seduction policy. No exceptions. Try not to corrupt her.
Asher sat up, careful not to jostle the girl wrapped around him. "A therapist..." He chuckled low in his throat, "Cute."
The girl- Lyla? Or whoever she was, propped herself on her elbow. Her eyes still hazy with post- orgasm glow. "Leaving already?" Her voice was pure pout and pillow talk.
"I've got a meeting," he said, rolling out of bed with the easy grace of a man who never rushed. "Something about corporate damage control and… personal reform."
This wasn't the first. He had had PR cleanups before. Image consultants. The occasional apology tour. But this? This felt different. Like they were finally tired of pretending his bad press was manageable.
Within minutes, he had finished dressing, throwing on a black shirt but leaving the top few buttons open. Just the way the headlines liked it. Hair messy, charm loaded.
She stretched, letting the silk sheet slide just enough to tease. "Need company?"
He gave her that crooked smile that had ruined reputations. "You'll be thinking about me for days. Let's not dilute the memory."
She laughed, not realizing she wouldn't get another round. Before he left the bedroom, he turned to the girl, still lounging on his bed like she was auditioning for a sequel.
"You can let yourself out," he said smoothly, tossing her a lazy wink. "There's champagne in the fridge if you're feeling clingy."
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Asher stepped into the private elevator, his reflection in the mirrored walls looking every bit the controlled storm he was. Handsome, untouchable, and always a few degrees colder than he appeared.
The private took him straight to the underground garage, where his McLaren waited like a shadowed beast. He slid into the driver's seat, fingers tapping the wheel.
Therapy?
They were really reaching.
He revved the engine, and stared out into the pulsing Los Angeles skyline.
"A therapist who couldn't be seduced? Now that sounded like a challenge." He smirked to himself as he slightly shook his head, amused.
They wanted him "rehabilitated." Cleaned up.
But if this woman thought she could fix him… she'd better be prepared to get her hands dirty.
His lips curved into a smile as he turned into the main streets — his expression, that of deviance.
.
.
.
Jade's office
Jade Sinclair scribbled her final notes, biting back the sigh threatening to escape.
"…and then he told me he couldn't help it, you know?" her client had said earlier, voice thick with tears. "He's just a man. Men have needs."
It was the same damn excuse.
Over and over.
She almost sighed out loud. Now, with the door shut behind that client, her third this week who used lust as a substitute for love. Jade dropped her pen and pinched the bridge of her nose.
She stared at the closed door for a full five seconds after her last client left.
Then she slowly, deliberately, rolled her eyes and dropped into her chair like her spine had finally had enough. She loosened the tight bun at the back of her head, freeing curls that had fought her all morning, and muttered under her breath.
"'He's just a man, he couldn't help himself,'" she mimicked in a syrupy tone, then scoffed. "Congratulations, Melissa. You've officially lowered the bar for the female species to floor level."
She grabbed her cold tea, sipped it, grimaced, and drank it anyway.
Three sessions today. Three different women, all with the same story: emotionally unavailable men, sweet apologies laced with lies, and an endless cycle of "this time he promised."
Jade had spent the last six years helping people untangle toxic patterns. And lately? It felt like the city was a breeding ground for emotionally stunted, commitment-phobic, over-sexed narcissists.
She could write a dissertation on the psychology of "fuckboys" and win an award. Or better yet, a vacation.
The soft buzz of her office intercom cut into her thoughts.
