Chapter 51
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
JULIE
Mom doesn't push. She doesn't ask questions I'm not ready to answer.
We spend our days at the pool, reading books and drinking fruity cocktails with little umbrellas.
We explore ports—St. Thomas, Barbados, Martinique—wandering through markets and taking photos of sunsets.
We eat too much at the buffet and laugh at the terrible karaoke in the lounge.
At night, I sleep better than I have in months.
The gentle rocking of the ship, the sound of the ocean, the distance from Seattle—it all helps.
I have my Telehealth sessions with Dr. Blanche twice a week.
We talk about trust and trauma and rebuilding.
About how healing isn't linear. About how I'm allowed to have good days and bad days and days where I don't know what I feel at all.
I text with Ryan every day. Sometimes just emojis.
Sometimes paragraphs about what I saw or ate or thought about.
He always responds. Always shows up. Jamie sends photos from the shop.
Business is good. She hired four new people and they're working out great.
She tells me not to worry, to take all the time I need.
For two weeks, I exist in this bubble where Asher Stevens doesn't matter. Where the divorce is just paperwork happening somewhere far away. Where I'm just Julie Nelson, on a cruise with her mom, trying to remember who she is. And then someone tags me on an Instagram post.
I'm in my cabin getting ready for a Telehealth session when my phone buzzes. A notification. Then another. Then five more in rapid succession. My stomach drops. I open Instagram and my hands start shaking immediately.
Asher and Devon. On a hotel balcony. At night.
Rain falling around them, the city lights of Seattle blurred in the background.
They're kissing. Not a polite kiss. Not a friendly kiss.
They're devouring each other. His hands are in her hair, her body pressed against his, her leg wrapped around his hip.
It's explicit. Intimate. The kind of kiss that makes it very clear what's about to happen next.
The photos are tagged with #AshersStevens #DisgracedHeir #SeattleScandal #StevensAffair
I scroll through the comments and my vision blurs.
Guess the wife left him because he likes them young. Gross.
How old is that girl?!? This is predatory AF. Someone call child services.
That girl looks like she just got out of a car seat a year or two ago. Sick.
Devon is a hot piece of ass. Can't blame him.
Daddy's money can't buy class.
I’d tap the shit out of that.
She’s fuckable. I’d be down to ruin that p*ssy.
Holy shit the disgraced Stevens heir is a predator.
Rich guys don't cheat unless their wives are frigid.
She's 18. I looked it up. Legal but creepy. He's 32. Pig.
I'd let him ruin my life tbh. Look at that jawline.
Poor Julie. She deserves better than this.
Plot twist: maybe Julie is the toxic one and he finally escaped.
I can't stop scrolling. Can't stop reading. Each comment is a knife, twisting deeper. Everyone has an opinion about my marriage. My life. My pain. I'm shaking so hard I drop the phone. It clatters to the floor and I stare at it like it's a live grenade.
My Telehealth session with Dr. Blanche is in ten minutes.
I was going to have it be a quickie—tell her I'm fine, that I'm having a good day, that I don't need to talk.
But now I can't breathe. I pick up the phone with trembling hands and open my laptop.
When Dr. Blanche's face appears on the screen, I'm already crying.
"Julie?" Her voice is calm, steady. "What happened?"
I turn my phone toward the camera and show her the photos. Then I start reading her the awful comments.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay. Take a breath with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I try. It comes out shaky and broken.
"Again," she says. "You're safe. You're in your cabin. You're with me. Breathe."
I do it again. And again. Until the panic recedes just enough for me to speak.
"Everyone knows," I say quietly. "Everyone has an opinion. This is never going to go away."
"Julie." Dr. Blanche's voice cuts through the spiral. "Look at me."
I do.
"What people think doesn't change what's true," she says. "You know what happened. You know why you left. That's the only truth that matters."
"But they're saying?—"
"I know it hurts. But those comments say more about the people writing them than they do about you."
I swallow hard. "They're calling him the disgraced Stevens heir."
"He is disgraced. He engineered a marriage, lied to you for two years, and had an affair with his teenage stepsister. That's objectively disgraceful."
"But they're also defending him. Saying she's hot. Saying I was probably frigid or toxic or?—"
"Julie." Her voice is firm now. "You cannot control what strangers on the internet say. You can't control their opinions, their judgments, their projections. The only thing you can control is whether or not you engage with it."
"I can't stop reading it."
"That's a trauma response. Your brain is trying to prepare for the next attack by gathering information. But it's not helping you. It's hurting you."
Tears stream down my face. "I thought I was done. I thought the worst was over. I left him. I got out. I'm supposed to be healing and now—now everyone knows for sure, it isn't just rumors, and they're all talking about me and I can't?—"
"This is a second trauma," Dr. Blanche says gently. "The first was the betrayal and manipulation. The second is the public exposure. And yes, it's unfair. It's deeply unfair that your private pain is now public entertainment."
"I didn't want this," I sob. "I didn't want anyone to know. I just wanted to disappear and heal and?—"
"I know. But Julie, listen to me. This was always going to happen. Asher Stevens is a public figure. His father was a public figure. The moment you separated, the moment the trust was distributed, this was inevitable."
"But the comments?—"
"Are cruel. They say more about our society's obsession with wealth and scandal than they do about you.
" She pauses. "But here's what I want you to consider: the photos are real.
Asher and Devon are together, publicly, and now everyone knows it.
Which means you're no longer the only one who knows the truth. "
I cock my head, considering that.
"He's exposed now," she continues. "His actions are visible.
And yes, people will have opinions. Some will blame you.
Some will blame him. Some will sexualize Devon or defend Asher or create narratives that have nothing to do with reality.
But none of that changes what actually happened.
None of it changes the fact that you were manipulated, gaslit, and betrayed.
And none of it changes the fact that you got out. "
"I feel like I'm drowning again," I whisper.
"I know. But you're not. You're sitting in a cabin on a ship in the Caribbean with your mother who loves you. You're two weeks into a healing journey. You're doing the work. And this—" she gestures toward the phone, "—is just noise. Painful noise, but noise nonetheless."
"How do I make it stop?"
"You don't engage. You don't read the comments. You don't defend yourself or explain yourself or try to control the narrative. You let it be what it is: other people's opinions about a situation they don't understand."
"But what if people think I'm the villain?"
"Some will. And that's okay. Because the people who matter—your sister, Ryan, your mother, me—we know the truth. And more importantly, you know the truth."
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "I hate this."
"I know you do. And you're allowed to hate it. You're allowed to be angry and hurt and scared. But Julie, I need you to hear me: this doesn't undo your progress. This doesn't mean you're back at square one. This is just another wave. And you're going to ride it out."
"How?"
"By stepping away from social media. By not reading the comments. By focusing on what you can control—your healing, your therapy, your time with your mother. By remembering that Asher's choices are not your responsibility. His consequences are not your burden."
I nod slowly, even though it feels impossible.
"Can you do something for me?" Dr. Blanche asks.
"What?"
"Delete Instagram from your phone. Right now. Just for a few days. Give yourself space from it."
My finger hovers over the app. "What if something important happens?"
"Then someone who loves you will tell you. But right now, that app is a weapon you're using against yourself. Put it down."
I take a shaky breath. And then I delete it.
The following week, I'm having breakfast with my mom on the Lido deck when her phone buzzes. She glances at it, frowns, and then looks at me. "Julie."
Something in her tone makes my stomach drop. "What?"
She turns her phone toward me. It's a news notification.
brEAKING: Asher Stevens Takes Leave of Absence from Ancre
I process the headline, my coffee cup frozen halfway to my lips. "Click it," I say.
Mom taps the notification and the article loads.
Asher Stevens, CEO of cybersecurity firm Ancre and son of late tech mogul Dean Stevens, has announced he is taking an immediate leave of absence from his position.
The decision comes amid personal matters that require his full attention, according to a press release issued by the company's board of directors this morning.
"We support Asher during this difficult time and look forward to his return when circumstances allow," the statement reads. No timeline for his return has been provided.
The announcement follows recent public scrutiny after photos surfaced of Stevens with his teenage stepsister, sparking widespread speculation about the nature of their relationship. Stevens recently separated from his wife, Julie Stevens, after two years of marriage. Divorce has been filed.
Ancre's board has appointed Chief Operating Officer Michael Brennan as interim CEO. Shares of Ancre dropped 8% in early trading following the announcement.
I read it twice. Then a third time. "He's stepping down," I whisper.
"Taking a leave of absence," Mom corrects gently. "But yes."
"Because of the photos."
"Probably. And the speculation. And the board." She reaches across the table and takes my hand. "This isn't your fault."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I look at her. "I absolutely do. I didn't post those photos. I didn't make him kiss Devon on a hotel balcony where anyone could see. I didn't make him lie or cheat or manipulate. He did that. All of it. And now he’s paying.”
My mom nods. “And now he’s paying.”
I don’t care if it makes me a shitty person. Knowing that he’s suffering makes me smile. Karma really is doing a number on him. Just like I hoped.