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 IknewAsher. 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 simpleThinking of youorYou'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'stooperfect. 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 helovedme. But it was all a lie. So how do I know Ryan isn't lying too? How do I knowanyoneisn'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 damnslowly—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 theSeattle 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?—"
"Isaidno 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."
