Chapter 50
CHAPTER
FIFTY
JULIE
The relief lasts until I get into bed that night.
Then, my nervous system seems to collapse.
I lie awake in the guest room at the West Seattle house, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the last few years.
Every conversation. Every touch. Every date.
Every laugh. Every time he said "I love you" and I believed him.
None of it was ever real. Not one minute.
I don’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. I'm barely eating. Jamie makes breakfast and I push it around my plate. Ryan brings takeout and I manage three bites before my stomach turns. Food tastes like nothing. I feel like nothing, too.
"You need to eat," Jamie says gently on day five.
"I know."
"Julie—"
"I said I know." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "I'm sorry. I literally can't right now."
She doesn't push. But I see the worry in her eyes. On day eight, I decide I need to go back to the house. My house. The one with my name on the deed. If I'm going to move forward, I need to reclaim that space. Make it mine again.
Jamie's at work, so Ryan drives me there in the late afternoon. The sun is setting over the lake, painting everything gold and pink, and for a moment—just a moment—it's beautiful. Then I walk through the front door and I can't breathe.
The couch where Asher used to sit with Devon. Her bedroom, still full of her shit. I want to burn it all, but then the crushing truth hits me: she's a fucking teenager. And as much as I hate her, I can't bring myself to be cruel to someone who's barely an adult. She’s a piece of shit, but I’m not.
I hate that she ruined my house. But I know she had help.
I blame her, yes. But I blame Asher more.
He took the vows. He made the commitment.
And he destroyed everything. So what started as a dream home is now the worst kind of scar.
Every room is a memory. Every corner is a lie.
It feels like walking through a haunted house.
Everything is wrong. I make it ten minutes before I have a panic attack in the guest room.
Ryan finds me on the floor, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face.
"I can't," I gasp. "I can't stay here. I thought I could but I can't."
"Okay," he says immediately. "Okay. We'll go."
He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't tell me I'm overreacting. He just helps me up, grabs my overnight bag, and drives me to Jamie's condo when I tell him that's where I want to go. I sleep on her couch that night. And the next night. And the night after that.
Ten days in, I realize what's happening.
I'm having a trauma response. All those abandonment issues I thought I'd dealt with in therapy years ago?
They're back with a vengeance. Except now they're compounded by the fact that I married a man who engineered our entire relationship.
Who lied about everything. Who made me believe I was loved when really, I was just part of an illusion.
And now I can't trust anything. I can't trust my judgment. I can't trust my instincts. I thought I knew Asher. I thought I understood him. I thought we had something real. I was wrong about all of it. So how do I know I'm not wrong about everything else?
Ryan texts me every single day. Sometimes it's just a simple Thinking of you or You're stronger than you know.
Sometimes it's a photo of something random—a dog he saw on his run, a sunset over the Sound, a terrible coffee shop pun on a chalkboard.
He never asks for anything back. Never demands a response.
Just... shows up. Consistently. Every day.
And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because he's too perfect. Too patient. Too kind.
Does he really care? Or am I imagining it?
Is he just being a good friend? Or is there something more and I'm too broken to see it clearly?
I thought Asher was genuine at the beginning.
I thought he was interested. I thought he loved me.
But it was all a lie. So how do I know Ryan isn't lying too? How do I know anyone isn't lying?
Jamie finds me a therapist the next week. Dr. Blanche specializes in divorce trauma and gaslighting. She has an opening on Thursday afternoons. I go to my first session thinking I'll ease into the process... and then spend the next forty-five minutes crying.
"I don't know who I am anymore," I tell her. "I don't know what's real. I don't know if I can trust anyone ever again."
"That's a normal response to what you've been through," Dr. Blanche says gently. "You were systematically manipulated for years. Your reality was constructed by someone else. It's going to take time to rebuild your sense of self."
"How much time?"
"As much as you need."
I start going twice a week. And slowly—so damn slowly—I start taking small steps forward.
I call a realtor and list the house. I don't want it. I don't want anything in it. I don't want the memories or the lies or the life I thought I was building there.
The realtor says it'll take time to sell—a property like that, the right buyer, the market.
I tell her that's fine. I just need to know it's in motion.
By week three, I think maybe I can go back to work.
Just for a few hours. Just to feel normal again.
Jamie and I are restocking the whipped body cream display when the bell over the door chimes.
A woman walks in. Mid-thirties, professional blazer, expensive bag. She doesn't look at the products. She looks directly at me. "Julie Stevens?" she asks.
My stomach drops. "It's Julie Nelson now, actually."
Because fuck if I'm ever using Asher's name again. The divorce won't be final for several months, but I'm already using my maiden name again.
She pulls out a business card. "I'm Rachel Winters with the Seattle Times. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your divorce from Asher Stevens."
The world goes sideways. "I—no comment," I manage.
"Is it true that you walked away from billions in the Dean Stevens estate? Can you confirm?—"
"I said no comment." My voice is shaking. "I have nothing to say."
"Mrs. Stevens, the public has a right to?—"
"Get out." Jamie steps between us, her voice hard. "She said no comment. You need to go."
The reporter hesitates, then nods. "If you change your mind, my number's on the card."
She sets it on the counter and leaves. I glare at the card like it's a bag of shit.
"Jules?" Jamie's hand is on my arm. "Hey. Look at me."
"How did she know?" My voice comes out strangled. "How did she know anything? I didn't tell anyone. We didn't announce anything. How?—"
"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. You don't owe her anything."
"But if she knows, then everyone knows. Or they will. And then I'll have to—I can't—" The panic is rising, hot and suffocating. "I can't do this. I can't come back here. What if she comes back? What if there are more of them?"
"Then we'll handle it."
"No." I'm backing toward the door. "No, I can't. I can't be here. I can't?—"
Jamie calls after me but I'm done. I drive back to her condo and lock myself in.
That night, I lie awake thinking about the reporter.
About how she knew. About who else might know.
About the possibility of running into Asher at the grocery store or the coffee shop or anywhere.
About encountering people from his world—the board members, the society wives, the people who came to our wedding and smiled and congratulated us while I had no idea it was all a lie.
What would they say? Would they ask about the divorce? Would they pretend they didn't know? Would they judge me? Pity me? I can't face it. Any of it. That's when I really start to spiral because I realize I'm trapped. Again.
I can't go to work because of the reporter.
I can't go home because the house is a crime scene of memories.
I can't go out because I might run into someone who knows.
I can't stay in Seattle because everywhere I look, I see Asher.
His world. His lies. I'm suffocating. In my next session with Dr. Blanche, I tell her everything.
"I feel like I'm in a cage," I say. "Like the walls are closing in and I can't breathe and I don't know how to get out."
"What would getting out look like?" she asks.
"Leaving. Just... leaving. Going somewhere he isn't. Somewhere no one knows my story. Somewhere I can just exist without all of this pressing down on me."
"Have you thought about where you'd go?"
"Not really. Just... away."
Dr. Blanche is quiet for a moment. "I think that could be really healthy for you. As long as you're not running away from the work."
"I'm not," I say quickly. "I want to keep doing therapy. I need to keep doing therapy. I just... I need space. Physical space. Distance."
"We can do telehealth," she says. "If you have reliable internet, we can keep our sessions going remotely."
Relief floods through me. "Really?"
"Really. I think getting some distance might actually help you process everything. Give you perspective."
That night, I call my mom. She's on another cruise, part of her big retirement adventure, the one she's been planning for years. She’s been everywhere but is currently sailing to the Caribbean islands, then crossing the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.
She's been sending me photos of turquoise water and ancient ruins and elaborate buffets.
"Sweetheart!" Her voice is bright when she answers. "I was just thinking about my girls. How are you?"
And I break. I tell her everything. The engineered meeting. The lies. The affair. The trust. The reporter. All of it. She listens without interrupting. And when I'm done, she's quiet for a long moment.
"I'm so sorry," she finally says. "Julie, I'm so, so sorry."
"I don't know what to do, Mom. I feel like I'm drowning."
"Where are you right now?"
"Jamie's condo. I've been staying here."
"And the house?"
"Listed. But it hasn't sold yet. I can't go back there. I tried and I just... I can't."
Another pause. Then: "Come meet me."
"What?"
"Come meet me. I'm in St. Thomas right now. The ship docks in San Juan tomorrow, then we head to Barbados. After that, we cross to Portugal. Come with me. Both legs if you want. Or just one. But come."
"Mom, I can't just?—"
"Why not?" Her voice is gentle but firm. "What's keeping you there? The house will sell whether you're in Seattle or not. Jamie can handle the shop. And you need to get away. So come. Be with your mom. Let me take care of you for a while."
Tears are streaming down my face. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"I don't want to ruin your trip."
"Julie." Her voice cracks. "You could never ruin anything. I want you here. I need you here. Please come."
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. I'll come."
The next morning, I tell Jamie. "I'm going to meet Mom on her cruise," I say. "Caribbean to Mediterranean. Both legs. I'll be gone for a while."
Jamie's eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "Thank God."
"Are you sure? The shop?—"
"The shop will be fine. Better than fine. We're legitimately rich as hell now. As crazy as that sounds, we need to accept it and use it for good. In this case, that means I can hire a ton of staff. Cover every shift. Hell, I can even hire a manager if I need to. So go. Take as long as you need."
"Jamie—"
"Julie, real talk, I'm fucking terrified." She grabs my hands. "I worry every single minute of every day. What that son of a bitch did to you… I’m proud of you for not being in the fetal position. But I’m also scared that if you don’t take care of yourself, at some point, you will be. Please. I’m begging you. Go be with mom.”
"I love you."
"I love you too. Now go pack."
Ryan comes over that afternoon to say goodbye. "I'll keep texting," he says. "Every day. Even if you don't respond. I'll be here."
"Thank you." I hug him tight. "For everything. For believing me. For helping me. For just... being here."
"Always," he says into my hair. "I'm always here. Go find yourself again. And when you're ready, come home."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."