The Contracted Substitute

Chapter 5

-MIA-

Asher’s silhouette filled the kitchen doorway. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, forearms taut and exposed. His usually sleek hair was tousled, one rebellious strand falling across his brow.

His jaw was locked. Fury radiated off him.

"I… I was trying to cook," I said, raising my voice over the blaring alarm.

He crossed the room in three strides, eyes sweeping over the mess before snatching the pan from my hands.

"This is burned!" he snapped, tossing it into the sink with a loud metallic clank. He turned on the faucet, letting water hiss over the scorched caramel, then faced me. "Can’t you do anything right?"

My mouth parted. I was stunned by the hostility, the harsh movements, the words that cut deeper than they should have.

I was only trying to do something nice for him, and that's how he treated me?

His eyes were narrowed, bloodshot. He swayed slightly.

He was drunk.

I wanted to say something. Contract or not, he had no right to speak to me like that.

But I had to wait. Wait until he sobered up.

So I dragged a chair beneath the smoke detector, climbed up, and silenced it with a press. Then I opened the windows, letting in a rush of cool air that did nothing to clear the tension.

Asher watched me like a hawk.

Silence settled over the kitchen, heavier than the fancy steel pan lying at the bottom of the sink.

Without another word, I walked out. I couldn’t stand another minute in his presence.

Tomorrow morning, I’d wake up early and clean everything before Anna arrives. But tonight, I needed distance from the red flag billionaire and the dark storm he carried with him.

_________________________________________

Even with the million-thread-count sheets, I barely slept. My mind replayed every possible conversation with Asher, ranging from explosive confrontation to icy, passive-aggressive silence.

By the time we had to leave for lunch at the country club, I’d made up my mind. I wouldn’t say a word to him. I’d play my part until the contract ended, then walk away from this madhouse without looking back.

And today I’d never looked better. Hair down, makeup soft. Linda’s navy dress hugged me just right, and I paired it with stunning nude heels. Unfortunately, after days of practice, my feet were wrecked. Blisters bloomed across my heels and toes like angry little volcanoes.

I hobbled into the living room, where Asher sat glued to his phone. His eyes flicked up straight to my feet.

"Why are you walking like that?"

That was it. No "Hello," no "How are you," no "Sorry I was a raging jerk yesterday."

Charming.

"These shoes are too tight. My feet are killing me," I said plainly. No point in lying.

I slipped them off, and one of the blisters burst. Blood pooled at the edge of my heel.

Asher gave me a dark look. "You can’t even bear this little pain?" Then he turned toward the kitchen. "Anna, can you bring the first aid kit?"

Anna arrived moments later, finding me perched on the sofa. She knelt beside me, gently applying a bandage while Asher disappeared onto the terrace, phone pressed to his ear.

"Thank you," I told her. "And sorry about the mess in the kitchen. I was trying to make Linda’s specialty. I was going to clean it, but you came earlier than I expected."

Anna chuckled. "Ah, Miss Walker. Linda never boiled an egg in her life. She had me make Mr. Holbrook’s favorites and pretend they were hers."

"Hmm," I murmured, a sound caught between surprise and resignation. But before I could ask more, Asher reappeared, urging me to hurry.

The ride to the country club was silent. He didn’t glance at me once, eyes glued to his phone like I didn’t exist.

Honestly? I was relieved. Every interaction with him had been a disaster. He was gorgeous, sure. But his personality was pure poison.

When Jake pulled up to the country club, I was surprised when Asher stepped out and offered his arm. I hesitated, then rested my hand on the crook of it, grateful for the support as my feet screamed with every step.

The waiter led us through the grand dining room, Asher nodded at a few people along the way, but never bothering to introduce me. Some ignored me entirely. Others gave me looks that ranged from curious to downright disdainful.

We reached our table by the window, overlooking the immaculately trimmed gardens. Everything here was polished, graceful, and cold. I felt like an exhibit. Something to be observed, not engaged with.

The complete opposite of the diner I used to work in.

I imagined Susan, with her busty figure and unapologetic sass, waitressing in a place like this. The image was so absurd I couldn’t help but laugh.

Asher glanced at me over the rim of his wine glass. "What’s so funny?"

"Nothing," I deflected quickly, lifting the menu to my face. "Is this the only page?"

The menu was a single piece of linen, delicately embroidered, with just a handful of dishes printed in an elegant, nearly illegible script. No laminated pages. No sticky corners. No fake leather binding.

Where were the endless options? The greasy fingerprints? The comfort of knowing you could order hamburgers at any hour?

This place was a different universe.

When the waiter returned to take our orders, I pointed to the chicken. It was the only thing I recognized.

You can’t go wrong with poultry, right? Fried, boiled, baked... I’d eaten it every way.

But when the dish arrived, I stared at the tiniest sliver of chicken breast, perched delicately on a smear of pea purée shaped like a half-moon. A red paste crowned the top like it was royalty.

I took a big bite, my stomach desperate after the long drive.

What I didn’t expect was that the red paste was pure cayenne pepper.

My throat ignited. I coughed violently, grabbing my water and gulping it down, but it barely helped. Tears welled in my eyes, and I gasped for air.

Asher was suddenly beside me, dabbing my eyes with his napkin.

"Are you okay?" he asked once I’d stopped coughing.

I licked my lips, the burn still lingering. "Yeah. I just can’t stand spicy food."

His brows knitted. "I thought you were having an allergic reaction. If you don’t like spicy food, why did you order chicken with harissa? It’s very spicy."

I took another sip of wine, trying to cool the fire in my mouth. "I didn’t know that," I murmured, glancing around. People were watching us. Of course they were.

"Is it okay if I go back to your penthouse? I’m not feeling well."

"Sure. Jake will take you. I’ll stay. I’ve got business partners to meet. Will you be okay on your own?" he asked, helping me up from the chair.

"Yeah," I nodded weakly.

But when Jake opened the car door and I slid into the back seat, I realized something.

The most surprising part of that failed lunch wasn’t the spicy chicken.

It was the flicker of something human in the cold billionaire’s eyes.

And I could almost swear I saw his heart.