20. How the King Was Made
How the King Was Made
King
The chairs in the therapy lounge are made for comfort, which is good because Asher hasn’t looked at or spoken to me since we got here.
I lean back on one side of the couch, left arm stretched out lazily across the back like this is just another boardroom negotiation.
All the way on the other side of me, Asher sits like he’s on trial for murder, jaw clenched, spine too straight, like the tension is the only thing holding him upright.
Like he might fall apart at any second.
Just as I’m about to make a joke about the cheerful-looking plant next to the couch, the door opens, and in walks a woman with long, dark hair and down-sloped, kind eyes.
“Hello, Mr. King and Mr. Harrison. I’m Marina, and I’ll be your marriage and family therapist for today.
It’s lovely to meet you both,” she says calmly, smiling as she sits down in a chair across from us, clipboard resting lightly on her knees.
“Before we dive into communication styles, I’d love to better understand the stories that shaped you both.
Your histories. Especially the ones you’re afraid to say out loud. ”
Asher scoffs, looking away. “That’s vague as hell.”
I glance sideways. “Scared, sweetheart?”
He ignores me. Marina waits patiently.
So I speak first. “My full name is Ambrose King. I’m the oldest of five siblings. Grew up in a religious cult in upstate New York.”
That gets Asher’s attention. His eyes flick to me, wary.
“It wasn’t a doomsday bunker or anything,” I continue. “It was just… rules. Everything was sin. Everything was obedience. I was the oldest child, which made me both the example and the scapegoat.”
Marina nods gently. “And how do you think that shaped you?”
I shrug, but it’s a practiced move—one I’ve perfected and one I use to pretend the story I’m telling doesn’t hurt.
“I learned control early. How to anticipate needs. How to lead. And how to hide the parts of me that didn’t fit.
” I pause. “I got out when I was fifteen. Got emancipated. Put myself through college. Columbia. Graduated at nineteen. I dabbled in a few different internships and entry-level roles at various firms before I started King & Rowe at twenty-four. I was made partner at twenty-seven.”
Asher doesn’t say anything, but I see his throat move when he swallows. That little flicker of something human underneath the angry armor he’s currently wearing.
“That must’ve been difficult. Do you still speak to your parents or siblings?”
I swallow. “Not really. One of my sisters—Annabelle—got out. She’s a photographer in California, and she’s been married to her wife for a few years.
Everyone else, though…” I look down at the ground.
“They’re still in the town we grew up in, practicing the things they were taught.
I don’t speak to my parents anymore, and aside from Annabelle, I don’t really talk to my siblings.
My lifestyle is a sin in their eyes, and they’ve made that very clear. ”
I see Asher shift next to me. I’m not saying any of this for sympathy—it’s my story, and it’s not something I hide or anything. But I do think people are surprised I came from such a fucked-up background.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad you’ve been able to have a relationship with Annabelle. And it seems as though you’ve found a wonderful partner in Mr. Harrison,” she adds, smiling at Asher. Marina turns to him. “And you, Asher? What shaped you?”
He’s quiet for a long time.
“I have an identical twin brother,” he says finally. “His name is Maddox.” Even the name sounds like it hurts to say out loud, and I turn to face him, hanging on every word. I know he’s not exactly forthcoming about his life, so I’m curious how much he’s going to tell Marina.
“We grew up inseparable. I was always the rational one. The calm before the storm. And Maddox was the storm. He was the daredevil, the one who always got us into trouble,” he adds, a small smile quirking on his lips.
“He taught me how to ride a bike, how to throw a punch, how to put gel in my hair so I looked cool. It wasn’t until high school that we grew apart.
“And then he went to prison for twenty years.” A pause. “I’m still not sure if he was guilty of the crime he was accused of, but he served the time nonetheless.” He looks down and gathers his thoughts for a few seconds. “I only visited him once. In prison, I mean.”
“Why?” Marina asks.
“Because the last time I saw him before he was arrested, he caught me with a guy. And I saw the look on his face. Pity. Or… understanding. I don’t know which one would’ve been worse at the time, and back then, I was proud.
Too proud to admit I was attracted to men, especially not to my brother who was in the Marine Corps.
And who was also very straight. It was the one thing we bonded over. Girls. Dating. That kind of thing.”
My stomach twists. I hadn’t known this part.
“I cut him out after he saw me with that guy,” he continues. “I stopped texting and calling. Then when he got out, he showed up and—” He stops, jaw flexing.
“And?” Marina prompts softly.
“He stole my girlfriend,” he finishes flatly. “Ari. My ex. I think it was his way of taking something back.”
I glance at him, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the floor, like if he blinks too hard, the pain might spill out.
“I think I hurt him when I cut him off, and he wanted to punish me. And I let him have her,” he adds, quieter now. “I still felt guilty for walking away. And we’re a little closer now. We text sometimes. And he has a son with Ari.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than any deal I’ve ever closed. I want to reach for his hand. To thread our fingers together. But I know my touch would burn him right now.
So I say it instead. “You didn’t deserve that. Maddox and Ari, and what happened. You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
Asher finally looks at me, like he’s surprised I’m not mocking him. Like he’s not sure what to do with my voice when it’s gentle.
Marina shifts forward. “You both have wounds rooted in abandonment. But I think what makes your relationship work—or not work—will be how you treat each other when those fears are triggered. So let me ask: when you’re hurting, do you try to win the upper hand… or do you try to be understood?”
Neither of us answers.
Because we both know what we’ve been doing.
Trying to win. Trying to win Walter. Trying to win deals. Trying to win at whatever fucked-up version of a relationship this is turning into.
Trying to dominate, outplay, control, distract.
Trying not to need each other.
And failing spectacularly, apparently.
The silence after her question is deafening. I glance sideways again, and this time, Asher’s looking back at me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—resentment, maybe. Or regret. Or the barest flicker of truth.
Because I think we both know the answer.
He looks away first. “We don’t talk about things,” he says finally, voice quiet but raw. “We weaponize them. We twist words, and we use them to get leverage. It’s like we’re in this with swords raised, ready for a fight at all times. It’s exhausting.”
He’s very astute. And I don’t deny it. I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. I didn’t expect him to answer honestly, and I suppose I’m trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he’s still pretending we’re together, despite learning earlier that I betrayed him.
“And what would it look like to stop doing that?” Marina asks.
Asher doesn’t respond, but I do. “It’d mean one of us has to be the first to put the sword down.”
She nods. “And?”
“And we’re not exactly unarmed kind of people. We’re both stubborn and strong-willed. Intimately, the dynamic works because I like being in charge and Asher likes to be told what to do. In real life, though? We both try to gain the upper hand, and we can both be conniving about it.”
It’s one of the most honest things I’ve ever admitted about myself.
Marina hums like she expected that. “You know… you don’t have to be completely unarmed to be vulnerable. You can still carry the sword. You just have to choose connection over being right—over raising your sword first.”
The words hang there, heavy and unwelcome. Like something sacred we’re both afraid to touch.
Marina gives us both a kind smile. “Before you go, one last thing. I’d like you each to write a few sentences tonight about what you want out of this relationship.
It doesn’t have to be deep. Just honest. Bring it with you to the next session on Thursday.
I think that’s enough for today,” she says gently.
“I suggest you two spend some quiet time together before the skiing activity after lunch. You don’t have to talk about what happened in here.
Just… be near each other. Practice not clashing outside of the bedroom. ”
Asher nods stiffly, already halfway to the door. I murmur something like an agreement and follow him out, the door clicking shut behind us with finality. The hallway outside the therapy room is quiet, which only heightens the tension.
Asher starts walking, fast, like the air might burn him if he lingers too long beside me. I match his stride, but I don’t say anything.
When we reach the stairs leading down to the courtyard, he finally stops. “I didn’t know that about you,” he says, voice low. “Your family. Where you came from.”
I shrug again, that old reflex rising. “You never asked.”
His jaw tics, but for once, he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Well, nevertheless… thank you,” he mutters.
For the story? The honesty? For not interrupting him? I don’t ask him to elaborate. All I can do is nod.
We step outside into the cold together, neither of us sure if we’re walking toward healing or the next silent war.
I follow him anyway, not because I think it’ll fix anything.
Not because I’m ready to stop fighting. But because watching him walk away again would hurt worse than whatever this is turning into.
The wind bites against my skin. I let the door click shut behind us, and for a long moment, we just stand there, between buildings.
He exhales, like something inside him just gave up the fight. “Do you want to go for a walk? Just… not talk. Or talk. I don’t know.”
I nod once. “Yeah. Okay.”
We walk down the snow-lined path anyway, shoulder to shoulder, keeping pace. It’s not much, and we don’t hold hands or anything. But it’s more than we’ve ever given each other.
Silence, understanding… and perhaps a tiny bit of camaraderie.
At least until he remembers he hates me.