Page 67 of What Goes Around

Just fled into his office and shut the door.

Interesting.

I left my shopping bags by the staircase to bring up later and walked into the living room.

Marissa and Apple were there, the TV on but neither of them watching it. Marissa was flipping through a magazine, while Apple was glued to her phone. Both looked up when I entered. Marissa’s eyes widened, her head jerking back in a double take.

I stood in the doorway, wearing a fitted black turtleneck that lengthened my neck, high-waisted jeans that made my legs look impossibly long, and heeled boots that brought me close to six feet.

I felt tall. Composed. Beautiful.

Marissa’s gaze moved slowly over me, taking in my hair, my clothes, my height, her jaw tightening before she smoothed it over.

“Well,” she said, “someone’s been… shopping.”

“Yeah,” I said. “With the money Dad gave me.”

“Ashley, why didn’t you tell anyone you were planning all… this?”

“Why would I?” I shrugged. “I didn’t think I needed permission to take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She smoothed her blouse. “I just think… you should’ve invited me. I could’ve helped you pick things. You know I love shopping with my girls.”

“Next time,” I lied. “It was kind of spontaneous.”

Her eyes flicked to the mountain of bags by the stairs. Envy burned hot and obvious.

“It looks… expensive.”

“It was,” I said, kicking off my boots.

Marissa forced a smile. “Your new look is very bold. You’ve never been bold, sweetheart. You always suited simpler styles. Softer ones.”

Translation: Plain.

Apple leaned forward, her phone forgotten. Her gaze traveled up my body inch by inch, her expression twisting tighter with every second.

“What… happened to your hair?”

“I got it fixed.”

“It was fine before,” she blurted.

“I didn't like it.”

“But the bangs made you cute. You shouldn’t get rid of them.”

I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. You can keep the cute role. It suits you more than it ever suited me."

But she was already spiraling. Apple hated competition. She twisted a strand of her own hair around her fingers, knuckles whitening.

“You don’t even look like you. It’s weird.”

“Does it bother you that I look different?” I asked.

“What? No!” she snapped. “I’m just saying it’s… unexpected.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, letting the soft highlights catch the living-room light.