Page 80 of Worth the Scandal
Chapter Thirty Seven - Scarlett
It has been two months.
Two months since I’ve seen or heard from Asher Kingston.
I’ve been the best manager he’s ever had; he’s got brand deals coming out of his ears. Still not good enough for him to call or message though. I understand, I do,I think.It would be hard to reach out right now.
Shell’s been holding things down in Dawson’s Ridge, officially running the Ridgebacks division of Maroon Management and thriving like I knew she would. She’s loud, loyal, quick-witted, and basically made to herd athletes and smack egos into place.
I should be celebrating the win. Our win. But instead, I feel like I’m standing alone in a crowded room at a very loud, very busy party where I know no one.
AKA: Sydney without Asher.
The city moves fast—but I move faster.
I don’t have a choice.
I didn’t come here to fall apart.
I came to build something.
To grow the business.
To prove I could do it without needing him beside me, even if every inch of me is screaming to turn around and go home. Home to Asher.
9:02 AM – Sydney Office, Barangaroo
Maroon Management’s temporary office is perched just off the harbour—a glass walled sun trap of ambition, caffeine, and late nights. The energy here is electric. Every desk is stacked with media kits, collaboration proposals, and half-empty lattes. We’ve doubled our client load in three weeks. I’ve signed two new athletes, landed a last-minute Sports Illustrated feature for the Women’s League, and locked in a brand collab with a Gen-Z golfer who dances mid-round and has the internet wrapped around his club grip. Merging this small agency going under was the best business decision I’ve made so far.
I should feel powerful. I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of, I’m in the top spot right now.
Invincible.
Instead, I feel like I’m always scanning for something I can’t name. Maybe, someone.
Even when I’m in heels, striding through meetings like I own the room, my brain never stops whispering:
What would Asher say?
Would he be proud of this?
Does he still think about me?
At night, it’s worse.
When the office quiets.
When there’s no knock on the door with Thai food from the only Thai place Dawson’s had to offer and tired shoulders from being the last to leave practice. No Asher falling asleep beside me in his Ridgebacks hoodie, mumbling about practice while I trace the edge of his jaw.
I scroll his post-game interviews like they’re love letters.
I’ve got Google alerts set on his name.
I pretend the ache in my chest is just stress. Lack of routine, working too many hours. The pressure of being a woman building an empire in a world full of men.
But Imisshim.
God, I misshim.
