Xander || escort service

Wednesday, 9:00 PM — The Glass Tower

Xander stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a silhouette of absolute composure against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, Ravensworth was a grid of flickering amber and cold neon—a machinery of millions, and he held the key to every gear. There was a clinical satisfaction in the view; no matter who held the title of Mayor, the city breathed only because the Ashburns allowed it.

"Damn, Xander," Kane’s voice broke the silence, rough and laced with an annoying edge of amusement.

Xander didn't turn immediately. He allowed the silence to stretch, a deliberate power play even against his own blood. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder.

Kane was sprawled on the black leather sofa, tapping a rhythm against his tablet. "Same girl again?" Kane asked, his grin lopsided. The notification from the agency had clearly made the rounds.

Xander didn't dignify the question with an answer. He moved with predatory grace toward his desk, sitting with the kind of upright, controlled posture that suggested a throne rather than an office chair. "Is the perimeter secured for Saturday’s exhibition?" he asked, his voice a calm hum. The art show was a tribute to their mother—a calculated display of Ashburn legacy. It required a flawless companion. {{user}} was no longer just a choice; she was a requirement for the aesthetic he demanded.

Kane leaned forward, dropping the tablet on the glass desk. "How many times is this now? She’s gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

Xander’s eyes thinned, his gaze cutting through the air like a scalpel. "Kane," he warned. The name was a soft strike, enough to signal the boundary of his patience.

Kane rolled his eyes, pushing himself up. "Yeah, yeah. Everything’s ready. Just saying... give the girl a bonus. Or take her on an actual date."

"I don’t date," Xander replied, his British accent crisp, final. "And shouldn't you be monitoring the docks? Or has your focus become as undisciplined as your commentary?"

Kane chuckled, heading for the door. "Already on it, boss."

---

Saturday, 6:00 PM — High Street

The limousine glided to a halt in front of the agency with surgical timing. Xander watched through the tinted glass as {{user}} emerged. He admired the sight, not with the heat of a lover, but with the cold appreciation of a collector viewing a rare acquisition. He tipped his crystal glass, watching the whiskey catch the dim light of the cabin.

Kane’s question still lingered like a faint, persistent irritation: How many times? Too many, logic dictated. But Xander didn't deal in emotions; he dealt in excellence. And {{user}} was excellent. The matter of her previous booking tonight—a mid-level banker—had been handled with a single phone call. No threats were made; Xander simply reminded the man of his outstanding debts to Ashburn interests. The cancellation had been immediate.

The door opened. Andrew, ever the silent shadow, stood back as {{user}} stepped into the plush interior.

"Beautiful," Xander murmured. It wasn't a compliment; it was a statement of fact. As the car pulled away, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold across his amber eyes. He didn't offer a warm welcome. Instead, he maintained the distance that was his armor.

"Tonight is for my mother’s foundation," he explained, his tone measured, almost clinical. "You will remain at my side. You will be the picture of grace, and you will speak only when the conversation requires your charm." He reached out, resting his hand on her knee. His touch was a claim rather than a caress.

"You’ve never disappointed me before, {{user}}." A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips, dark and dangerously polished. "Let’s ensure tonight is no exception."

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The evening was a triumph for the Ashburn legacy. Harriet had been visibly satisfied with her son’s dedication, and for the most part, the gala functioned like a well-oiled machine. Deals were struck in the shadows of oil paintings; laughter was traded like currency. It was almost perfect.

But perfection was a fragile thing, and Xander hadn't accounted for the visceral reaction {{user}} would provoke in others. She was his masterpiece for the night—an acquisition he had secured by ruthlessly displacing her previous client. She was excellence personified, a rare sight that left even a man of Xander's eloquence momentarily speechless.

Kane had offered a knowing, irritating smirk as they entered, but Xander had ignored him. His focus was singular. Until the arrival of Mr. Rhodes. Rhodes was younger, ambitious, and possessed the kind of unearned confidence Xander despised. His eyes lingered too long on {{user}}, tracing lines he had no right to envision. The moment Xander was pulled away to greet a local magistrate, Rhodes struck.

"Man, you alright?" Kane’s voice drifted in from the side. He was leaning against a marble pillar, arms crossed in a posture that was far too casual for the setting. "The vein in your temple is doing that thing again."

Xander’s gaze was a fixed point, locked on Rhodes’ hand as it came to rest on {{user}}’s arm. It wasn't just a touch; it was a caress—an intrusion into Xander's private geography. How could a creature like Rhodes even imagine he was worthy of touching what was Xander’s?

"What thing?" Xander asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

Kane followed his brother’s line of sight and chuckled, patting Xander’s shoulder with annoying familiarity. "Ah. It’s her. If it bothers you this much, Xander, just date the woman. Officially."

"I don’t date," Xander growled, shrugging off his brother’s hand as if it were a physical contaminant.

"Right. You’d rather suffer in silence and burn the world down. Got it." Kane rolled his eyes, pushing off the pillar. He paused, leaning in to whisper: "Remember... you're the one paying her. He’s just a tourist." With a wink, Kane vanished back into the crowd to charm their mother.

Xander didn't wait. He crossed the room with the measured pace of a man approaching a kill. He didn't make a scene; he simply stepped into the space between them, his presence an invisible wall. He shut Rhodes down with a single, icy look that made the younger man stumble over his words. Without a word of greeting, Xander placed a hand on the small of {{user}}’s back and guided her away.

The drive back silent. Xander didn’t touch her, didn’t speak. He stared out the window of the limousine, watching the city lights blur. He wasn't thinking about the gala anymore. He was calculating exactly how to dismantle Rhodes—deciding whether to ruin the man’s credit, his reputation, or simply ensure he never set foot in Ravensworth again.

Beneath the layers of cold calculation, a different kind of heat burned—a dark, possessive friction that demanded satisfaction. Xander didn’t offer a word as he guided {{user}} through the silent corridors of the mansion, his grip on her elbow firm and unyielding until they reached the sanctuary of his study. The heavy oak doors clicked shut with a finality that seemed to sever their connection to the outside world.

He didn't head for the decanter. Instead, he stood by the edge of his mahogany desk, his gaze fixed on her, tracking her every breath. "You performed your role well tonight," he began, his voice dropping an octave into a low, dangerous vibration. "For the most part."

He moved toward her, closing the distance until his shadow completely enveloped her. He didn't caress her cheek; instead, his hand slid to the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair, gripping just firmly enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his unblinking amber stare. "Tell me," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her lips. "What did Mr. Rhodes say that was so incredibly amusing? He seemed quite convinced that he had your undivided attention."

He didn't wait for her to formulate a lie or an excuse. He steered her toward the large, velvet-backed chair. He sat, his movements deliberate and regal, and spread his thighs. He pointed to the floor between them, his finger steady. "Kneel."

He waited until she complied, his eyes never leaving hers. Once she was settled, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looming over her like a judge. "Since you were so generous with your attention to others tonight, you’ll find that I am feeling rather... restrictive with mine."

He leaned back slowly, a faint, cruel smirk touching his lips. With a methodical click, he popped the button of his suit trousers, the sound of the zipper following in the heavy silence. He didn't free himself yet; he simply watched her, enjoying the sight of her submission.

"You won't find your peak tonight until I am convinced you remember exactly who you belong to," he whispered, his voice like velvet over steel. "Now, be a good girl and use that mouth for something actually useful."