“Only two of the women I brought around were actually dates. Neither worked out. But Asher made it clear that if I wanted to continue hanging with him while you were around, I needed to keep bringing dates or you’d have an issue with me."
“What? Why?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "He said you hated every one of his single friends, so you pushed for him to stop bringing them around. That you had trust issues with men, particularly single men, because of your father. He said bringing dates would make you more comfortable aroundme—that it would help you feel safe. So whenever I could, I did. I thought I was being considerate. I thought I was helping.”
The words hit like a bolt of lightning. It’s so insane, I can barely wrap my mind around it. "You thought you were helping me by bringing dates?" I ask, looking for clarification.
"I mean... yeah." His jaw tightens. "He kept saying you were uncomfortable. So I made sure I always brought someone so you wouldn't feel threatened or—fuck, I don't know. So you'd know I wasn't trying to take your husband out to clubs or some shit, like his other douchebag frat bros. Who, real talk, I also think are fuckwits. So I could see where that would have been a problem for you."
A chill skates down my spine. “This entire time, I thought you were a player," I say slowly. "I thought you didn't care about any of them. I thought you were just?—"
"Using them." Ryan finishes the sentence, his voice flat. "Yeah. And I guess that's what my best fucking friend wanted you to think."
We sit there in silence. The reality show is still playing in the background, but neither of us is watching it anymore. Asher lied. To both of us. He told Ryan I was fragile. Told me Ryan was careless. And then he sat back and watched us both perform roles we didn't even know we were playing.
"He also lied about me isolating him from his friends," I say quietly, the pieces clicking into place. "He did that all on his own. It’s true I don’t like them, I’ll cop to that all day long. But whenever they called or texted, I told him to answer or to go out with them. I would never police a man to keep him faithful. If I needed that level of control over someone else to feel certain of them, the relationship would be over. So this is all on him. For some reason he wanted you to believe I cut him off from his friends."
"Jesus. And he made sure you saw me as a fucking man whore," Ryan says. His hands are clenched now.
I feel sick. All those dinners. The women Ryan brought with him. I told myself he was exactly what Asher said he was. And the whole time, Ryan was trying to protect me from something that didn't exist. "I'm so sorry," I whisper.
Ryan looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "You didn't do anything wrong, Julie. He did this. He manipulated both of us. And I have no idea why."
"But I believed him." My voice cracks. "I believed every word."
"So did I."
We're both quiet for a long moment. The weight of it settles between us—the realization that Asher didn't just lie. He orchestrated an entire false reality to keep us exactly where he wanted us.
Ryan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ."
"Yeah."
He looks at me, and I see it now—the anger, the betrayal, the same sick realization I'm feeling. We were both played. Both used.
And neither of us saw it coming.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
JULIE
I pullinto the garage at seven thirty and make my way up into the kitchen silent. Asher’s car isn’t in the garage so I already know he isn’t here. Devon’s Mercedes is there, but she could still be out with him, so I’m not sure if she's around or not. I set my purse on the counter and stand there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me.
I stopped at Thai Palace on the way home and picked up pad thai, green curry, and spring rolls. It's sitting in bags on the counter, the smell of lemongrass and coconut filling the kitchen. I set out plates and grab napkins, my mind still spinning from Ryan's house.
My hands are shaking slightly as I unpack the containers. I set them on the table, trying to look calm. Trying to look like nothing is wrong. Like I didn't spend the last few hours at another man's house processing my crumbling marriage. After the conversation Ryan and I had on his couch earlier, I'm sure of one thing. My husband is a fucking liar and a master manipulator.
Just. Like. Dear. Old. Dad.
I need a plan. I don't know what it is yet, but I know I need to prepare. And until then, I need to tread water and act normal. Like I'm not planning my escape route. Even though I am. I need to find an attorney. Someone who specializes in estate law, contracts, maybe even family law. I need to know what happens to Dean's gift now that he's dead. What are my options when I leave?
I hear the garage door open. Asher's car pulls in, the engine cutting off a moment later. The door from the garage opens, and I hear him coming up the stairs before he steps into the kitchen. Devon is behind him. So they were clearly together this entire time. Cue my absolute lack of surprise.
Asher looks me over. “Hey,” he says.
"Hello."
