His To Ruin

Chapter 2 - The Wedding

The Ashford estate had been transformed overnight.

Jaime stood at the edge of the garden, a champagne flute sweating in her hand, and watched hundreds of strangers float past her like expensive ghosts. White drapes hung from ancient oaks. String quartets played something soft and forgettable. Every woman wore silk. Every man wore a watch worth more than her car.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not really. Not as anything other than the bride's daughter — a title that felt less like belonging and more like a warning label.

Her mother, Clara, had spent the last six weeks repeating the same phrase: "Just smile and don't speak unless spoken to." Jaime had nodded each time. But nodding wasn't agreeing. It was surviving.

She spotted Clara across the lawn, laughing with Richard Ashford's sister. Her mother looked ten years younger.** on her fingers. A dress that cost a down payment on a house. She had married up so fast she left skid marks.

And Jaime? Jaime was the luggage that came with her.

"You're hiding."

The voice came from behind her left shoulder. Low. Familiar. Already ruinous.

She didn't turn around.

"I'm observing," she said.

Leo Ashford stepped into her peripheral vision. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone. His hair was still slightly damp from a recent shower. She knew because she had watched him leave her room an hour ago — silent, dressed in the dark, not a single word of goodbye.

That was their arrangement now. Whatever this was.

He didn't ask permission to stand close. He simply did. His shoulder nearly touched hers. Close enough that she could smell his cologne — cedar, smoke, something expensive and angry.

"You're not observing," he said. "You're calculating who here would f**k you."

Jaime finally turned. "I think you're projecting, Leo. Is that what you did? Calculate?"

Leo's mouth curved. Not a smile. A verdict.

"I don't do that, Jaime. I decide."

She felt it in her stomach. That familiar pull. The same one that had landed her on her knees for him three nights ago, then again this morning before dawn. He had a way of saying her name like it was a command. Not Jaime. Mine.

"You should mingle," she said, deflecting. "You're the son of the groom. People want to see you."

"People want to see me fail." He took the champagne flute from her hand and set it on a passing tray. "Come with me."

"Where?"

He didn't answer. He just walked.

And Jaime followed.

That was the thing about Leo Ashford. He never asked twice.

He led her behind the main tent, past the catering trucks, into a small greenhouse tucked against the east wing of the mansion. Glass walls. Orchids. Humidity thick as breath.

No one else was there.

Leo locked the door behind them.

"The wedding hasn't even started yet," Jaime said. Her voice was steady, but her pulse wasn't. "Your father is about to marry my mother."

"I'm aware."

"So what are we doing here?"

He stepped toward her. Slowly. The way a storm steps across a field — inevitable.

"We're setting terms," he said.

Jaime's back hit a potting table. Orchids trembled behind her.

"Terms for what?"

Leo placed one hand on the table beside her hip. Then the other. He didn't touch her. He caged her.

"For the summer," he said. "You're living in my house now. My rules."

"I have a room in the guest house."

"You have a room I allow you to use." His voice dropped. "There's a difference."

Jaime should have pushed him away. Should have laughed. Should have reminded him that they were step-siblings now — or would be, in approximately two hours.

Instead, she tilted her chin up.

"And what if I don't like your rules?"

Leo leaned closer. His lips brushed her ear. Not a kiss. A threat.

"Then you'll learn to like them."

Her breath caught. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Leo noticed everything — the way her fingers curled against the table, the way her thighs pressed together, the way she said no like she was really saying harder.

"This is insane," she whispered.

"Probably."

"We barely know each other."

"We know enough."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were gray. Cold. And burning.

"I'm not looking for a girlfriend, Jaime. I'm not looking for a step-sister. I'm looking for someone who doesn't flinch when I take control." He paused. "You didn't flinch this morning. Or last night."

She remembered. God, she remembered.

His hands in her hair. His voice in her ear. The way he'd said stay and she'd stayed. Not because she was weak. Because she wanted to.

"You're a bastard," she said.

"I'm an Ashford." He smiled. Same thing.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was possession — his mouth claiming hers like she'd already signed a contract she hadn't read. His hand slid to her throat. Not squeezing. Resting. A reminder.

Jaime grabbed his belt and pulled him closer. She felt him hard against her thigh. The greenhouse was humid. Her dress was thin. Everything was a terrible idea and she wanted it anyway.

He broke the kiss first. Always first.

"Tonight," he said, thumb tracing her jaw, "after the reception, you come to my room. Not the guest house. Mine."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

She should have laughed. Walked away. Told him to go f**k himself.

Instead: "What time?"

Leo's eyes darkened. Approval. Hunger.

"Midnight. Door unlocked. Don't knock."

He stepped back. Adjusted his cuff. Straightened his jacket like he hadn't just pinned her against a table full of orchids.

"The ceremony starts in twenty minutes," he said. "Fix your lipstick. You look like you've been touched."

He unlocked the door and walked out.

Jaime stood there for a full minute, breathing. Her lipstick was smeared. Her thighs were wet. And her hands were shaking — not from fear.

From the terrible, electric certainty that she was going to be at his door at midnight.

And she wasn't going to knock.

The wedding ceremony lasted eleven minutes.

Short. Efficient. Rich people didn't have patience for poetry.

Clara cried happy tears. Richard kissed her like a handshake. The guests applauded politely. Somewhere, a photographer captured Jaime standing in the second row, expressionless, thinking about a locked greenhouse and a man who said her name like a leash.

At the reception, she ate nothing. Drank two glasses of champagne. Watched Leo across the lawn, laughing with his mother, shaking hands with his father's business partners. He didn't look at her once.

That was the game. In public: strangers. Step-siblings. Barely acquainted.

In private: Midnight. Door unlocked.

At 11:47 PM, Jaime excused herself from a conversation with Richard's second cousin (something about hedge funds). She walked past her mother, who was already drunk and dancing with the senator from Connecticut.

She didn't say goodnight.

She walked through the main house, up the spiral staircase, down the east hallway. Leo's door was at the end. Dark wood. Brass handle.

She didn't knock.

She turned the handle.

It opened.