Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
RYAN
The elevator to Asher's floor is fast but somehow feels like it takes forever anyway, each ding of the passing floors grating against my raw nerves.
My jaw aches from clenching it so hard I can feel the tension radiating up into my temples.
I came here yesterday to have it out with him, but was told he had a family emergency and was gone for the day.
I checked with Jamie. There was no family emergency.
I assume it was just another lie. Who knows with him anymore.
The wait might have been better though, honestly.
Yesterday, I might have knocked him the fuck out.
I've been holding myself together with fraying thread ever since Julie showed up at my door two days ago, fucking shattered, telling me about the therapy session Asher had ambushed her with– and the doctor he used to do it.
I knew exactly who she meant the second the name left her mouth.
Amanda fucking Reeves. The unhinged girl Asher used to fuck in college, the one Dean Stevens despised so much he threatened to cut Asher off entirely if he didn't end it.
The same Amanda Reeves who apparently spent an hour yesterday telling Julie she was the problem in her marriage, that she was too needy, too emotional, too much.
The receptionist tries to stop me when I blow past her desk, her voice trailing behind me like an afterthought I don't bother to catch.
I shove Asher's door open without knocking, the heavy wood slamming against the stopper with a crack that echoes through the massive office. He's at his desk, some spreadsheet glowing on his monitor, and when he looks up, annoyance flickers across his face before he smooths it out. Fuck. He’s been like this the whole time, hasn’t he?
"What are you doing here?" he asks, like it’s normal that I just threw his door open.
“I’m here because I want to know what the fuck you’re thinking right now.”
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with deliberate slowness like he's buying time to calculate his response. “I see you talked to Jamie,” he says. “It’s nice that you care, but this is between me and my wife."
He assumes that I only talked to Jamie, which is his first mistake.
"Bullshit.” I step closer. The office stretches around us-floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city like a backdrop he bought to impress people, everything polished wood and brushed steel and understated wealth-but the space feels like it's shrinking, the walls pressing in as the oxygen thins.
"You fucking ambushed her, asshole. That isn’t just between the two of you. She was a fucking mess, Asher.”
Something shifts in his expression before he blinks and smooths it away. "Wow. That little bitch lied to me. She didn't go back to work. She went running to you to cry about the session."
"Don’t you dare fucking call her a bitch ever again.
She lied about one thing, Asher. One." My voice drops, gravelly with the effort of keeping control.
"You've been lying for years. About more than one thing. About me. About me having a revolving mattress. I know what you told her about me. You’re fucking sick. "
His eyes narrow and his jaw is clenched as he takes in what I’ve just said.
“I see you two had quite a heart to heart.”
Oh, he’s big mad. Good.
“Yeah, we did. And we compared some notes. So now I’m wondering what the fuck you were doing telling her I spend the lion’s share of my time fucking half of Seattle.”
He’s silent for a minute. Finally, he shrugs. "I didn’t want her looking at you. No good husband wants their wife flirting with other men.”
I look at him like a fucking alien is speaking through him. “What the fuck? She’s never flirted with me.”
“Right, because I made sure she wouldn’t by making you sound like a whore. I see I should’ve done a better job talking shit about you, though. She shouldn't have gone to you to whine about therapy. That was a fucked up move on her part."
I laugh, and the sound comes out ugly, jagged.
"You don't get to play the betrayed husband when you're the one who orchestrated the whole thing.
Amanda fucking Reeves? The girl you used to sneak into your dorm while your father was threatening to disown you?
That's who you chose to treat Devon? And to 'help' your marriage? "
His face flushes, a sheen of sweat beading at his hairline despite the climate-controlled air. "It wasn't like that."
"It was exactly like that. You're tanking your marriage on purpose. You abandoned her at your anniversary dinner. You let Devon run your life like some creepy little shadow. You're not even trying to save it.”
"Don't bring Devon into this." His voice hardens, that protective edge that always surfaces when anyone questions his stepsister. "She's not the issue. Julie is."
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. "Julie hasn't done shit except try to love you. Your stepsister is a creepy little bitch who wants to ride your dick, and we both know it. Have you been sleeping with her?"
His jolts like I punched him. “What? No. Jesus Christ, Ryan."
The answer comes too fast, too sharp. There's something in his eyes-a flicker of guilt or defensiveness or something darker that I can't name but recognize as wrong. I don’t think he’s fucked her. But something is going on. It’s like he’s both lying and not.
"Then why is she the center of your entire world? Why does she get to torment your wife while you stand there and let it happen?"
He shrugs, that casual gesture so at odds with the tension vibrating through the room. "She's a useful distraction. Everyone thinks Devon's the issue. Makes it easy for everyone to blame the marriage on her instead of what's actually happening."
"Have you been fucking Amanda again?"
He pauses. Just for a second, but it's enough.
"No." Then he adds, almost as an afterthought: "At least, not yet."
The words land like a physical punch to my sternum.
I step closer, close enough to see the pores in his skin, the slight tremor in his hands where they rest on the desk.
"Who the fuck even are you anymore? You love Julie.
She's amazing, kind and funny and real in a way nobody in your world knows how to be other than me.
Your father liked her, and he hated everyone. What the hell are you doing?"
Something cold settles over his face, erasing every trace of the man I thought I knew.
“You’re right. Daddy Dearest really thought she was the bees knees.”
“I thought you liked that.”
His face is a mask of barely restrained fury. “No. Him thinking she was so great ruined fucking everything.”
“What did it ruin. Asher? Was it bad that he finally fucking approved of something you did? Because to be honest, you seemed pretty happy about it until now.”
He glares at me for several silent seconds. “You know what? Fuck this. It's time you knew the truth."
He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conversational tone that somehow sounds more terrifying than shouting. “I don't fucking love Julie."
The room tilts. I look at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to take it back and laugh and tell me it's a sick joke. He doesn't.
"What?"
"You heard me."
This isn't possible. I know what I saw with my own two eyes when they got married. I know how relieved he was when she came down that aisle. I saw him tear up. I saw his body relax when she got close. What he’s saying now does not fit with first-hand experience of that event.
"I think you need help, Asher. I'm dead serious." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from somewhere outside my body. "You're having a breakdown or something. You love her. I know you do."
He scoffs. "I promise you I don't."
"Then why the fuck did you marry her?"
He stands abruptly, his chair rolling backward and slamming into the credenza hard enough to make the crystal decanters rattle. "Because I had to! You don't know what I've been through, what my father put me through. Nothing about Julie and I was ever what it seemed. Even our meeting was bullshit."
My stomach rolls, that weird sensation of cresting a rollercoaster. It’s like the drop is coming, and I’m holding onto the rail for dear life, regretting that I ever got on the damn ride. "What?"
"That day she rear-ended me?" He watches me with the predatory focus of a cat cornering a mouse, and I realize he's starting to enjoy this. "I did it on purpose."
The words don't make sense. They register as English, as individual sounds, but they don't connect to meaning. My head is fucking pounding. This is impossible. “You're lying."
"I'm not. I knew exactly who she was. The girl from 3A you talked about that very fucking morning at breakfast before I dropped you off. The one you said was so beautiful but off-limits because she was wearing what you thought was an engagement ring."
My hands start shaking. I jam them in my pockets to hide it, but I can feel the tremor working its way up my arms. "What are you talking about?"
"Come on, Ryan. You talked about her all the time.
The girl in 3A. The one who smiled at you in the hallway, who carried canvas bags from the farmer's market, who smiled at everyone and was, and I quote, fucking gorgeous.
" His voice takes on a mocking tone, an impression of me that makes my skin crawl.
"If you liked her, that meant she was a good girl.
Wholesome. The kind my father would approve of.
The kind who would make me look stable and responsible. "
The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet, like the foundation is dissolving. "So you what? Followed her? Stalked her?"