Chapter 32
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
JULIE
I record a quick voice note for my sister, outlining the basics of my shitty afternoon, and ask her to cover for me if Asher calls.
The session plays on a loop in my mind. Asher sitting there in that office, already waiting.
Because he'd planned it that way. I feel alone, angry, and so goddamn foolish.
I used to have other friends I could call, but things got weird when I started dating a billionaire. I hate that it happened, but it’s true. People I’d loved and supported for as long as I could remember started making sharp comments about how I was slumming it whenever I went anywhere with them.
If I tried to pay for drinks or lunch or even a bottle of wine—the same as I always had—they’d call me Moneybags.
That infuriated me because, to this day, I’ve never taken anything from Asher.
The things I pay for come from my bank account.
The only things I did not pay into are the house and the jewelry he’s bought me.
So making it out like I had morphed into some society bitch with a black card and an attitude was really shitty of them.
And the way they acted about my engagement ring and the wedding made it clear they were wondering who I’d become.
Four of the girls I went to college with RSVP’d no to the wedding entirely.
It was humiliating. I was still me, but the weight of someone else’s bank account changed the way they saw me.
It broke my heart and narrowed my world, because in addition to losing the people I thought had my back, I couldn’t trust anyone who suddenly found me interesting just because I married into money.
My own mother avoids coming to visit me when she’s in town, because the house makes her uncomfortable.
Money changes things, and not in a good way.
So there are only two people who have my back at this point, since my husband clearly doesn’t.
The first is my sister. The second is Asher’s best friend.
I scroll to Ryan's name. He works from home a few days a week because he dislikes the stiff formality of office buildings. Chances are good he’ll be around.
I hesitate for a second. But Ryan has always been easy.
True. Strong. He doesn't ask me to be anything other than what I am.
I text him:
Hey, are you home? I need to talk.
His response comes back almost immediately:
Sure am. Come on over.
Ryan's house is twenty minutes away in Queen Anne, tucked on a tree-lined street with views of the sound.
It's a Craftsman that's been meticulously restored.
Original woodwork, leaded glass windows, a wide front porch with built-in benches.
The hydrangeas along the walkway are overgrown in that intentional way that says someone's paying a gardener to make it look effortless.
This is the kind of house that costs millions but doesn't announce it.
Ryan is the least obvious rich person I’ve ever met.
The same goes for his parents. They’re down to earth and considerate, absolutely nothing like Asher or his father.
They may be billionaires, but it's completely different from the Stevens family. If Asher hadn’t told me Ryan’s family business was as big as it is, I never would have guessed.
I park in the driveway and walk up to the front door. Before I can knock, Ryan opens it.
"Hey," he says. He's wearing jeans and a faded Seahawks t-shirt, barefoot. His hair is a little messy, like he's been running his hands through it and he smells divine. "You okay?"
"Far from it," I admit.
He watches me carefully as he steps aside to let me in.
The house smells like coffee and something faintly woodsy.
The interior is beautiful—restored hardwood floors, crown molding, a stone fireplace—but it's lived in. Comfortable. It isn’t a showpiece or a palace.
It’s a home. I've only been here a few times but I'm always struck by how lovely it is.
"Want to talk over coffee?" Ryan asks, already heading toward the kitchen.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I follow him into the kitchen. It's been beautifully updated but kept the original character—white shaker cabinets, marble countertops, a farmhouse sink. There's a French press on the counter, still half full. Ryan pours me a mug and hands it to me, then leans against the counter.
"So," he says. "What’s going on?”
I take a sip of the coffee. It's strong and slightly bitter, exactly what I need.
I swallow hard and then dive in. “Asher lied to me to get me to take Devon to her therapist this afternoon. Said he couldn’t do it himself because he had a meeting.
But when I got there, he was waiting in the office.
He set me up and had the doctor ambush me. "
Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"He hid his fucking car, Ryan. So I wouldn’t know he was there until it was too late. The therapist called it a family session." I set the mug down on the counter so I can make air quotes around that last part.
"Then the doctor spent the entire hour making me feel like I'm the problem. Like I'm the one who needs to adjust and be more understanding and develop coping strategies."
“What the fuck? That's bullshit," Ryan says immediately.
"Not according to Dr. Evil. In that office, Devon is the traumatized orphan who needs stability, and I'm the selfish wife with ‘abandonment issues’ who can't handle having her in the house."
My voice is rising, but I can't stop it. "Dr. Reeves kept asking how I've been adjusting. Like it's my job to make everything easy for Devon. Like my feelings don't matter at all."
Ryan’s head jerks back. He’s quiet for a moment, watching me. “So a random doctor just thought he’d diagnose you with issues without ever having spoken to you before?”
"The doctor was a woman. And yes, she did. She was awful.”
Something flickers across Ryan's face. It's fast, just a split second, but I catch it. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrow slightly, and then the expression is gone. Smoothed over like it was never there.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I’m fucking pissed you had to deal with that.”
I laugh, and it sounds dark. “Me too. She was aggressive and really went for me. It was totally fucked.”
Ryan starts pacing. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Asher sat there? He just let a therapist tell his wife she's the problem?" He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it. "Jesus Christ, Julie."
"Yep. And when she suggested I do multiple sessions per week to really address my “abandonment issues", he nodded along."
He stops mid-stride, his whole body going rigid. When he turns back to me, there's something dangerous in his expression. "That motherfucker. You deserved none of that. None of it." His voice drops lower, harder. "You are not the goddamn problem."
He starts pacing again, and I can see him fighting something—his jaw working, his fists opening and closing. He looks like he's about to say something else, something bigger, but then he catches himself. His mouth closes. He takes a breath.
"He should be—" Ryan stops. Shakes his head. Doesn't finish.
I sniffle and shrug my shoulders. "It's a mess."
"Asher has lost his fucking mind," Ryan says, but there's something underneath the anger now. "How are you here and he isn't four steps behind you crying like a bitch and begging for forgiveness?"
I bark out a harsh laugh. “Because he set me up, Ryan. He isn’t sorry, He’s smug.”
"In fact, when it was over, they invited me to get ice cream with them. Like we're one big happy family." I laugh again, but it sounds bitter. "I made an excuse and left. I couldn't be around them for another second."
He looks damn near apoplectic. "Devon's playing him."
"Oh, I know that," I say. "But he doesn't see it. Or he doesn't want to see it.”
"She's good at it," Ryan says. His voice is flat, almost cold. "I've seen her do it. The way she looks at him. The way she positions herself. She knows exactly what she's doing."
“Do you really think so?”
"Abso-fucking-lutely." Ryan's expression hardens. "I don't trust her. Never have. There's something off about her."
It's a relief to hear Asher’s best friend say it. To know I'm not imagining things. "Asher thinks I'm being cruel," I say quietly. "He thinks I don't understand what she's been through.”
"That’s bullshit. You're not being cruel. You’ve been a fucking saint through all of this. He’s made this problem. Not you.” Ryan steps closer, his voice softening.
"Look, Julie. I'll always be there for you. You know that, right? Anytime you need me."
I nod, my throat tight.
“You don’t deserve any of this. Asher needs to get his shit together," Ryan continues. "He's dealing with a lot right now. His dad, the business, Devon. He's overwhelmed. But there’s no excuse for what he just did to you. It’s abusive. Full fucking stop.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “He doesn’t love me anymore,” I admit, my voice cracking.
“Everything you’ve told me today, I get thinking that. But I can’t believe it,” Ryan says. “He married you after a lifetime of telling people he wouldn’t get married. Somewhere in there is the man you fell in love with. He has to be there.”
If he were anyone other than Asher’s best friend, I’d tell him my truth. That after today, I don’t even care because I no longer have it in me to love Asher. I’m done. Living like this has been hell. It can’t continue.
"Thanks," I say. "For letting me come over. For listening."
"Anytime." Ryan smiles, and it's warm, but concerned. Genuine. "You want to stay for a while? We can watch something terrible and make fun of it."
I laugh, and it feels good. Real. "Yeah. That sounds perfect."
We move into the living room, and Ryan pulls up some ridiculous reality show on his TV. I curl up on one end of the couch, and he sits on the other, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.
His phone buzzes on the coffee table. The screen lights up with a name: Katherine.
I sit up a little. "Oh—do you need to get that? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you if you have a date or something."
Ryan glances at the phone, then dismisses the call without picking it up. "I'm not seeing anyone right now."
"Oh." I try to smile. "Well, I'm sure it won't be long until someone else comes along. You always have someone."
He looks at me like I just spoke a different language. "What?"
"You know." I shrug, trying to keep it light.
"Your date parade. Asher's always joking about it.
He says you cycle through women like—I don't know, like they're a hobby or something.
He always tells me not to get attached to whoever you bring around because the next time we see you, it'll be someone new. "
Ryan's face goes completely still. "Wait. What did Asher tell you?" His voice is quiet. Careful.
"Just that." I shift on the couch, suddenly uncomfortable. "That you date a lot. That you're not really the relationship type. He says that's why you always bring a different woman to dinner. Because you like variety."
Ryan doesn't move. He's staring at me like I just told him the sky is green. "Julie." His voice is low. Controlled. "That's not what happens at all.”
"What do you mean?"
“Only two of the women I brought around were actually dates. Neither worked out. But Asher made it clear that if I wanted to continue hanging with him while you were around, I needed to keep bringing dates or you’d have an issue with me."
“What? Why?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"He said you hated every one of his single friends, so you pushed for him to stop bringing them around. That you had trust issues with men, particularly single men, because of your father. He said bringing dates would make you more comfortable around me—that it would help you feel safe. So whenever I could, I did. I thought I was being considerate. I thought I was helping.”
The words hit like a bolt of lightning. It’s so insane, I can barely wrap my mind around it. "You thought you were helping me by bringing dates?" I ask, looking for clarification.
"I mean... yeah." His jaw tightens. "He kept saying you were uncomfortable.
So I made sure I always brought someone so you wouldn't feel threatened or—fuck, I don't know.
So you'd know I wasn't trying to take your husband out to clubs or some shit, like his other douchebag frat bros.
Who, real talk, I also think are fuckwits.
So I could see where that would have been a problem for you. "
A chill skates down my spine. “This entire time, I thought you were a player," I say slowly. "I thought you didn't care about any of them. I thought you were just?—"
"Using them." Ryan finishes the sentence, his voice flat. "Yeah. And I guess that's what my best fucking friend wanted you to think."
We sit there in silence. The reality show is still playing in the background, but neither of us is watching it anymore. Asher lied. To both of us. He told Ryan I was fragile. Told me Ryan was careless. And then he sat back and watched us both perform roles we didn't even know we were playing.
"He also lied about me isolating him from his friends," I say quietly, the pieces clicking into place. "He did that all on his own. It’s true I don’t like them, I’ll cop to that all day long.
But whenever they called or texted, I told him to answer or to go out with them.
I would never police a man to keep him faithful.
If I needed that level of control over someone else to feel certain of them, the relationship would be over.
So this is all on him. For some reason he wanted you to believe I cut him off from his friends. "
"Jesus. And he made sure you saw me as a fucking man whore," Ryan says. His hands are clenched now.
I feel sick. All those dinners. The women Ryan brought with him. I told myself he was exactly what Asher said he was. And the whole time, Ryan was trying to protect me from something that didn't exist. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.
Ryan looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "You didn't do anything wrong, Julie. He did this. He manipulated both of us. And I have no idea why."
"But I believed him." My voice cracks. "I believed every word."
"So did I."
We're both quiet for a long moment. The weight of it settles between us—the realization that Asher didn't just lie. He orchestrated an entire false reality to keep us exactly where he wanted us.
Ryan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ."
"Yeah."
He looks at me, and I see it now—the anger, the betrayal, the same sick realization I'm feeling. We were both played. Both used.
And neither of us saw it coming.