"Has he contacted you?" Asher asked his secretary, who shook his head silently.
"Why hasn't he called yet?" Asher muttered, frowning. Just then, his phone rang. He didn't even need to check the caller ID—it was his best friend, Ryan.
"Reschedule my meeting with Mr. Franklin. He's out of the country," Asher instructed. His secretary gave a curt nod.
"Anything else you'd like me to handle?" the man asked.
"You can go," Asher said, waving him off. As the door shut, he dialed the number back. Just like he expected—it was Ryan.
"What's up Her? Why didn't you pick up when I called earlier?" Ryan's cheerful voice rang out.
Asher rolled his eyes. "I told you to stop calling me that."
"And that's why I won't," Ryan replied smugly. "It's a shortcut for Asher. Fits you. But don't change the topic—why didn't you pick up? Someone there?"
Asher sighed. He already knew where this was going.
Ryan had always called him "Her." Not Ash. Not Asher. Just Her. A weird habit. But Asher let him. No one else got that privilege. It was their thing.
They hadn't grown up together. They met when Asher was starting his company and Ryan—rich kid with a trust fund—was looking for a job.
Asher couldn't understand it. Why would someone who clearly came from wealth want to work at a struggling startup?
Ryan had just smiled and said, "I know potential when I see it. And that money? It's not mine. It's my parents'. I want to pave my own way"
Asher respected that. Not many spoiled heirs thought like that. Ryan didn't want to inherit a company he didn't care about. He had a dream—acting—and he needed funds. But asking his dad? Not happening.
So he worked. Hard. With Asher's support, he rose. Now? Ryan was one of the most in-demand actors around. He didn't just make his own money—he made a name.
"What do you want? Why are you calling me now?" Asher asked flatly, not in the mood for small talk. His desk was a war zone of paperwork.
"Wow. Rude." Ryan laughed. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
"Biggest lie I've heard all week."
"Can't a guy call his best friend? I missed you," Ryan teased.
"Yeah, right."
"Okay, okay. Fine. I actually wanted to talk about… you know."
Asher's brows furrowed. He knew where this was headed.
"Are you really going through with it?" Ryan asked, voice quieter now. Wary.
"Yes," Asher said simply. "It's the only way to get close enough."
Ryan sighed. He'd been trying to talk Asher out of this plan since day one. But Asher wasn't someone you could convince once he made up his mind.
"Alright. If you say so. I'm shooting right now, so I'll call you later."
"Later," Asher said—and hung up.
LATER THAT NIGHT...
Amelia entered the VIP lounge like she owned it.
She didn't need to announce herself. Her stride was smooth, controlled. Confident.
Her eyes scanned the room—dim lighting, plush couches, warm gold tones. Soft jazz played in the background, and the faint smell of cigarettes clung to the air.
Three middle-aged men sat waiting. She recognized two. The third was new.
"It's so nice of you to finally join us, Siren," one of them said, voice dripping with familiarity.
Her lips curved into a subtle smile beneath her mask, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Apologies for the delay," she said coolly. "Had a bit of a hiccup."
The room fell silent. One of the men even had to clear his throat to break the spell.
It wasn't just her beauty or presence—it was her voice. Smooth, hypnotic. No wonder they called her The Siren.
"It's fine. We just arrived," the second man said quickly.
"Good," she replied. Then, with polite sharpness: "Now, gentlemen, if you would kindly explain why you called me here—I'm a very busy woman."
The unfamiliar man reached into his suit and slid a photo across the table.
"We want him dead."
She reached forward and picked up the photo.
Her gaze narrowed.
"Asher Reed?" she murmured, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Didn't expect that. I suppose a man that famous is bound to have enemies."
"You can handle it, right?" the new man said, tone laced with skepticism. "You were highly recommended. Unless that was all just hype."
She tilted her head slightly, unbothered.
"If you really didn't believe in me, you wouldn't be sitting there."
The man chuckled. "I guess not."
"Your work will be done," she said, rising smoothly to her feet. "I'll contact you once it's finished. Then you can send the remaining payment."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked out.
Once in her car, she looked at the photo again.
A slow smile curled her lips.
Amelia was born into chaos.
Her mother was a famous model and actress—always partying, always on the move. Her father? A mystery. She met him at a photoshoot, fell in love, got married. For a while, it was a perfect love story.
They didn't want children. Her mother made that clear.
Then Amelia happened—a "mistake."
Her father was thrilled. Her mother was not.
She tried to end the pregnancy. More than once. But her father stopped her every time.
When Amelia was born, her mother changed.
She hated her. Blamed her. And drank herself sick trying to forget the life she gave up.
Amelia grew up with words like "You ruined everything" echoing in her ears. Her father fought with her mother constantly. Eventually, her mother walked out—divorced him and left Amelia behind.
Her father, heartbroken, became distant. Work became his escape. She was raised by strangers—nannies and babysitters. She didn't mind. She didn't feel anything, anyway.
Her first kill came in high school.
A predator. A guy who harassed girls, always getting away with it.
Until one day, Amelia saw him hurting someone behind the school.
She blacked out.
When she came to her senses, he was dead. Blood everywhere. A metal rod in her hands. The girl stared at her, trembling.
She thought she'd be terrified. She wasn't.
She felt... relieved. Even excited.
Her father covered it up. No one ever found out.
But Amelia had discovered something that day—something she never forgot.
Killing made her feel something.
Now, to the world, she's Amelia: the glamorous, influential owner of a top magazine company.
But in the shadows?
She's Siren. The assassin no one sees coming.
Not even her father knows.
And that's how she likes it.
Looking at the photo of Asher Reed, she chuckled darkly.
"This is going to be fun," she whispered.
Imagine someone like him suddenly dropping dead. The internet would explode. The investigation would be brutal.
But that's the thrill.
She always gets away.
She is after all The Siren.