Chapter 20 ASH
ASH
Doggy Style
We pull into the driveway in silence. The kind that isn’t cold, just… heavy. Like the air after a storm. There’s still lightning in the distance, but it hasn’t cracked yet.
I cut the engine and glance over. Olive stares ahead, jaw tight, hands folded in her lap like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“Do you maybe want to watch a movie together?” I ask quietly.
She turns to me with a tired, gentle smile. “No… I think I need a little time to myself. Just to think. I hope that’s okay.”
I nod, even though every part of me wants to say no.
“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
“Thanks, Ash. For today. For getting me out of there.”
I nod again, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me. “Always.”
We walk inside, and she disappears into her room. She says she needs space—but all I want is to be where she is.
A while later, I hear her pad back out and curl up on the couch. She doesn’t say anything—just tucks her legs under herself, blanket over her lap, hair twisted into a messy knot.
Before I can speak, Margot materializes from the kitchen like a benevolent wraith, a water bottle in one hand and a rolled yoga mat in the other. “Phone,” she says, palm out. Olive blinks. “I’m—researching."
“You’re doomscrolling,” Margot corrects. “And it is turning your brain into soup. Phone.”
Olive sighs and surrenders it like a kid giving up contraband.
With the flourish of a stage magician, Margot unfurls the mat. “We stretch. We do doggy style. We sip water. Then you will feel better.”
“Doggy style?” Olive blinks, scandalized. “Oh—you mean downward dog. I don’t think stretching can fix my problems,” she mutters, but she’s already sliding off the couch, because no one refuses Margot when she uses that voice. It has the authority of a headmistress and the inevitability of weather.
I’m confused too. What the hell does a dog have to do with this? But while Olive and Margot set up on the floor, I decide hovering uselessly is a bad look. I grab a towel and drop onto the rug beside them.
Margot positions Olive at the front of the mat, nudges her shoulders back with two gentle fingers, and softens her voice. “Breathe into your ribs. In. Out. In. Out. There it is.”
“Hands and knees,” Margot directs. “Cat-cow. Move like you are made of velvet and spite.”
Olive huffs a laugh and rounds her spine. I copy her, more or less. My spine voices a formal complaint. Is Yoga supposed to feel like this? I feel like a folding chair someone tried to turn into origami.
“Downward dog,” Margot says.
I glance at Olive. She pushes her hips back, straightens her legs, upside-down V, effortless.
I try. Both calves seize like they’ve been waiting for this moment since 2009.
“AH—” I collapse into a dignified heap.
Olive startles, then covers her mouth, eyes sparkling. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I grumble.
I ease back up, this time with my knees a little bent.
“Next,” Margot says, “we lunge. We remember we own thighs. Left foot forward. Yes, dear. Beautiful posture.”
Olive threads her fingers overhead, breath deepening. She looks taller. Something in my chest loosens. We cycle through a few more poses under Margot’s particular brand of diplomacy.
“Warrior two,” she says. “Gaze soft, jaw softer.”
“Pigeon,” she says. “We put the feelings in the hip and then we let them go.”
Why do these poses all have animal names, anyway?
“Child’s pose,” she says at last, settling a folded towel under Olive’s forehead like a benediction. “We are small by choice, not because anyone made us.”
Olive folds. Her breath evens. The quiet that arrives is the good kind—the kind with air in it.
Margot sits back on her heels, satisfied.
“Thank you,” Olive says into the towel, muffled.
Margot pats her shoulder. “You are welcome. Ten more breaths. Then a shower.”
After Margot leaves for the day, Olive returns from her shower with her laptop in hand and settles onto the couch.
I stay in the kitchen, pretending to clean up the dishes.
I can hear her typing. Fast, steady. That has to be a good sign. She always types when she’s sorting through things, pouring herself into god-knows-what. But if she’s writing, maybe she’s not feeling so bad anymore. Right?
That little crease forms between her brows—the one I’ve come to recognize as her “don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-in-a-flow-state” face.
I don’t interrupt.
But then her phone lights up beside her and she reads the name on the screen. “Nina,” she mouths, eyes flicking to mine.
I nod once and give her a little shooing gesture, encouraging her to answer. It’ll be good for her to talk to her best friend.
She stands and grabs her phone, brushing past me with a whisper of citrus and vanilla. “I’ll be outside. I need to vent.”
She offers a tired smile before slipping out onto the patio.
I head to the couch and finally pull out my phone. Time to do some research for our engagement moon.
A vacation. That’s what we need. Or maybe just a chance to breathe. A place that’s ours—no cameras, no headlines, no kindergarten drama.
I sink into the cushions and start typing: romantic, private getaways near the coast.
She needs something good. Something quiet. And maybe if I can give her that… I can make up for the shitstorm I dragged her into.
I’m halfway through reading about a secluded vineyard when I shift to reach for my charger—and hear a soft clunk beside me.
I frown and lift the edge of the blanket she’d curled under earlier.
Her laptop.
It must’ve been buried under there, forgotten when she rushed off to take Nina’s call.
I go to close it. Just a simple flick of the lid, nothing invasive.
But the screen lights up before I can.
A browser window is open. A blog post.
Drafted. Not published.
I stare and read the title that sounds familiar to me: “After the Photoshoot.”
And below it… the backend of a WordPress site.
Her blog. And the post is about us. I know it instantly.
I freeze. Olive’s new to all this—fame, media scrutiny. Did she use my name? If she did, it could undo everything. The PR strategy, the sponsors… my entire team would lose their minds.
I keep scrolling, heart pounding.
And then I exhale.
She changed the details—nothing in it could identify us.
Smart girl.
I click the laptop closed.
Sit back.
Stare at the ceiling, the words are still echoing in my head.
I decide to look up her blog on my phone. After all, everything she puts out there is there for everyone to read.
I’m only a few paragraphs in before I forget I’m not supposed to be reading it.
It’s that good.
Her writing is… sharp. Funny. Emotional. She has this way of peeling back every feeling—humor wrapped around heartbreak, like she’s both bleeding and winking at the same time.
Raw. Brave. Brilliant.
I scroll further, skimming a few lines of earlier posts. Blog titles like:
“I Highlighted So Many Lines, My Kindle Started Judging Me and I Read 12 Billionaire Romances in a Week—Here’s What I Learned”
make me snort out loud.
But it’s the comment section that really hits me.
Dozens of them. No, hundreds.
Little hearts and usernames I don’t know, pouring in their thoughts:
“Crying in my car right now. You GET it.”
“This is why I come back to this blog. Every single post is a hug.”
“I added every book you mentioned to my Tbr. My weekend is ruined. Or saved.”
“If you don’t write a book, I will riot.”
I blink, stunned.
She’s not just blogging. She’s building something. A real audience. People who care.
Who see her.
I glance at the follower count.
Over a hundred thousand.
Holy shit.
She’s been doing this right under my nose—pouring her heart out, crafting something incredible—and I never knew.
A knot forms in my chest.
She’s got something real here. Not just a blog—but a voice, a community, maybe even a career if she wants it.
And all this time, I thought I was the one with the spotlight.
Turns out, she’s had her own the whole damn time.
And now?
Now I want the world to see it too.
I want her to see it.
Because Olive Hart is a hell of a lot more than my fake fiancée.
She’s a fucking star.
***
I’m still on my phone, reading—still in awe—when the door creaks open.
Olive steps back inside.
Her shoulders are tight, jaw set, and the exhaustion etched into her face guts me. She looks wrecked.
I sit up straighter, sliding my phone under a throw pillow—not because I’ve done anything wrong, but because I don’t want her to feel exposed.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She glances up and gives me a small, tired smile—the kind you give when you’re barely holding it together. “Hi.”
“Everything okay?”
She nods. “Just… a long day. I think I need to lie down for ten years.”
I get to my feet before she can shuffle past me. “Sit down. I’ll make you tea.”
She blinks, clearly surprised. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
By the time she sinks onto the couch, I’ve already filled the kettle and am rummaging through the pantry for the fancy loose-leaf stuff she likes. She always rolls her eyes at it but drinks every last drop. It smells like cinnamon and something floral—like her, somehow.
When I bring the mug back, she’s curled up in the corner of the couch, knees tucked in, hair slightly messy from the phone call. I hand her the tea and slide in beside her, close but not crowding.
She exhales as she wraps her hands around the mug. “Thank you.”
I don’t say anything. Just reach over, slow and gentle, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her temple, and she stills. Her lashes flutter.
She doesn’t pull away.
For a few moments, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the soft clink of her spoon against the mug.
And in that quiet, I look at her—and really see her.
The writer. The dreamer. The woman who built a whole secret world out of words, who’s poured herself into stories and metaphors and paragraphs she’s never taken credit for. A woman who’s been hiding brilliance behind soft smiles and oversized cardigans, and for what?
To play it safe?
To stay invisible?
No. Not anymore.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
She shifts beside me, and I glance down. Her eyes are on me, searching.
“What?” she whispers.
I shake my head, just the smallest bit.
“You’re extraordinary, you know that?”
She exhales softly, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the words.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds ominous.”
I turn just enough to face her, but I keep my voice soft. “Your laptop… it was open when you left. I swear I wasn’t snooping, but—” I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. “I saw your blog.”
She goes still.
Like statue-still.
I push on, careful. “I didn’t mean to read it. I went to close the screen, but the post was… right there. And—” My throat feels dry. “It’s incredible, Olive. You’re incredible.”
Her cheeks flush, though her eyes narrow. “Wait—you read it?”
“I couldn’t not read it,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “The way you write… it’s like you cracked your chest open and turned your heart into words. People feel that. I saw the comments, the followers—hell, I couldn’t stop reading.”
She stares at me, eyes wide and blinking fast. “You… looked at the comments?”
“I had to make sure you didn’t accidentally use our real names,” I admit with a wry smile. “Don’t worry. You didn’t. River and Ellie—cute, by the way.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “Oh my God. You read that one?”
“Yeah,” I say simply, because I’m not going to lie to her. “And I need you to know, Olive, I wasn’t embarrassed. Or mad. I was… proud. Proud of how talented you are. And yeah, maybe I’m flattered that you… wrote about me. Us. But mostly? I’m just blown away.”
She’s quiet for a long time, her fingers twisting together in her lap. I can see the war waging behind her eyes—the instinct to retreat, to downplay, to disappear.
“I’m not… that person,” she says finally. “I’m not someone who gets seen. I’m not supposed to be in the spotlight. I’m the girl behind the curtain, cheering other people on.”
I shake my head slowly. “No. You’re the girl writing the curtain open.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, startled. She shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not ready for anyone to know. It’s… too personal.”
I lean in, keeping my voice low and honest.
“You think being anonymous protects you. But it’s also keeping the world from knowing how brilliant you are. That blog—it’s more than just a hobby. It’s your voice. And it’s real.”
She swallows. “It’s just romance stories.”
“Bullshit,” I say, gently but firmly. “It’s heartbreak and hope and raw emotion. It’s the kind of writing that makes people feel less alone. You write like it’s your damn soul on the page, and that takes guts most people don’t have.”
She blinks quickly. “You really think that?”
I nod. “I know that.”
She’s tearing up now, and I reach for her hand, lacing our fingers together.
“You have this incredible gift, Olive. And yeah, I get why you’ve kept it private. But maybe it’s time to stop hiding. Maybe it’s time to show the world who you are—on your terms.”
She looks down at our hands. “You really think people would want to read more?”
“They already do,” I say. “But if you ever wanted to take it further—publish a book, get it out there—I’d help. I mean it. I know people. I could make some calls.”
Her head snaps up. “Wait—you’d help me publish something?”
“Absolutely. Not because I’m trying to ‘fix’ anything. Just because the world deserves your stories. And you deserve to see how far they can take you.”
She lets out a choked laugh, brushing at her eyes. “God, you’re annoying when you say all the right things.”
I grin. “It’s a gift.”
And in this moment, I know I’d burn the whole world down to protect her. But I’d much rather help her rise—out loud, unhidden, and exactly as brilliant as she is.