He blinks. “What?”
“You honestly think Rowan Ashcroft would accept that?” I ask flatly. “A day off?”
Theo winces. “Right. Yeah. That was-” He shakes his head once. “That was stupid.”
He nods, conceding immediately. “Okay. Forget I said that.”
Camille folds her arms. “I’ll make sure she eats. And sleeps. Or at least pretends to.”
Theo nods again, relieved. “Good. I’ll… uh.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
He hesitates then.
Just for a second.
His gaze flicks to Camille-not quick, not casual. Intent. Loaded.She meets it without moving, something unspoken passing between them that has nothing to do with me.
Theo swallows. “Bye.”
“Bye,” Camille says.
He lingers another half-second, then turns and heads back to the car.
I watch him go.
I watch the way Camille exhales once the taillights disappear down the street.
And I understand.
Not because they say anything. Not because they touch.
Because I know what it looks like when two people are careful with something fragile.
They’re in love.
Violet
I follow Camille up the steps and into the house, letting the door close behind us.
Because tonight, everyone is holding something close to their chest.
And I don’t have the energy to judge any of it.
Camille doesn’t give me a choice.
She drags me inside, shuts the door behind us, and locks it with a decisive click that makes my shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Bedroom,” she says, already moving.
I follow because I don’t have the energy not to.
She pulls open her closet and starts digging without commentary, tossing fabrics aside until she finds what she’s looking for. She hands me a soft bundle- red pajama pants, worn thin from use, and a simple tank top.
“Bathroom’s yours,” she says, already turning away. “Take a shower. I’ll order food. I don’t have shit here.”
I nod, clutching the clothes like I’m not entirely sure what to do with them.
The bathroom light is too bright. The mirror is too honest.
I peel myself out of Rowan’s black dress slowly, carefully, like it might shatter if I rush it. The fabric pools at my feet, glossy and out of place in Camille’s bathroom. I pick it up, fold it once, and drop it into her laundry basket without thinking.
Then I turn the shower on.
Hot.
Too hot.
Red-hot.
Steam fills the room as I step under the spray, letting it beat down on me until my skin burns and my thoughts blur. I wait for it to help-for something to loosen, something to release.
It doesn’t.
I just stand there, water streaming over me, feeling numb in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
When I finally turn it off, my hands are pruned and shaking.
I pull on the pajamas, surprised by how soft they are, how normal they feel. I glance at the clock on the bathroom wall.
I have to be at work at eight.
Camille at nine.
I move quietly into the living room. She’s changed into her own pajamas-oversized shirt, leggings-and trash TV is playing on the screen. Women are screaming at each other, one of them pouring an entire bottle of wine into another woman’s glass while everyone else loses their minds.
Normally, I’d be glued to this.
Tonight, it’s just noise.
Camille sets plates on the coffee table. Chinese food. Steam still rising.
“How the hell did you get this so fast?” I ask faintly.
She shrugs. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
She hands me a plate and pats the couch beside her. I sit. She sits too.
She doesn’t talk.
She just lets the silence sit between us without trying to fill it.
I eat because she put the plate in my hands. I don’t taste anything. My eyes drift past the TV, past the shouting, past the drama, to the wall behind it.
I hope she doesn’t notice.
When the plates are empty, Camille takes them without comment and disappears into the kitchen. When she comes back, she reaches for my wrist gently and pulls me to my feet.
“Come on.”
She leads me toward the spare bedroom.
I stop at the doorway.
The room is dark. Quiet. Empty.
Cold.
I stare at it too long.
Camille notices. “Hey,” she says softly. “What?”
I shake my head, unable to explain the weight pressing down on my chest.
She studies me for a moment, then sighs. “Why don’t you just sleep with me?”
I blink. “What?”
“In my bed,” she clarifies. “We’ll go into the office together.”
I don’t argue.
She pulls me back down the hall and into her room, flicking off the light as we climb into bed. The mattress dips under our weight. The familiar presence of another person nearby steadies me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
It feels… normal.
Almost.
I close my eyes.
And see my brother’s face.
Then Calder’s.
Then Rowan’s.
They blur together, overlapping, twisting into something I can’t breathe through.
I bolt upright just as Camille’s alarm goes off.
She groans and rolls over, rubbing her face. Then she freezes.
I watch it hit her all at once-memory, reality, everything that happened last night settling back into place.
Her eyes meet mine.
Neither of us says anything.
The day has already started.
And neither of us is ready for it.
Camille is already halfway feral by the time I step back into her bedroom.
She’s ripping through her closet like it personally offended her, hangers clattering to the floor, clothes tossed over the bed, onto the chair, anywhere but where they started.
“Just find something that fits,” she says, not looking at me. “Anything. I don’t care if it’s ugly.”
She pulls out her phone with her free hand. “I’m ordering coffee and breakfast from the caf? across the street. Theo will be here in fifteen, so we need to move.”
Of course she’s done this before.
There’s no panic in her movements-just efficiency born from experience.
I nod and start rummaging, fingers brushing over fabrics that smell like her laundry detergent, her life. Nothing is mine. None of it feels like me But I don’t have the luxury of preference.
I find a stretchy dress buried near the back.
Emerald green.
Soft. Forgiving. It’ll fit my chest at least, which feels like a win this morning. It hits just at my knees when I pull it on, smooth and uncomplicated.
I brush my hair out quickly, hands still stiff, then pull it into a high ponytail to keep it off my face. Last thing I want is strands sticking to my skin while
I’m trying to pretend I’m functional.
A jean jacket hangs off the back of a chair. I throw it on. The denim works with the green-grounds it, somehow.
When I step back into the room, Camille stops mid-scroll.
Actually stops.
She looks up at me, eyes going wide.
“…Okay,” she says slowly.
I brace. “What?”
She shakes her head once. “I know this is the absolute last thing on your mind right now, but we need to get you new clothes.”
I blink. “Camille-“
“No,” she cuts in, pointing at me with her phone. “I’m serious. You cannot keep pretending you don’t look like that.”
“That” sounds like an accusation.
I glance down at myself, suddenly hyperaware again. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s an emerald dress,” she corrects. “And you’re exhausted and still somehow pulling it off. Which is rude.”
I huff out a weak breath that might be a laugh if I had the energy.
She taps her phone. “Coffee’s ready for us. Theo’s five minutes out. Grab your bag.”
I do as told.
Because right now, Camille is the only thing between me and completely unraveling.
Violet
Walking into Ashcroft Industries feels like moving through water.
Everything is slower. Thicker. Heavier.
I’m exhausted. Hollowed out. Still numb in a way sleep didn’t fix and coffee won’t touch. My body is here, upright and functioning, but my mind is lagging half a step behind, processing things it doesn’t have language for yet.
And yet-
I look… different.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t choose it. I just put on what fit and left the house because the world doesn’t stop for grief or investigations or sleepless nights.
Emerald dress. Heels. Hair pulled back. Jacket over my shoulders.
Pulled together in a way that doesn’t match how I feel.
People notice.
It starts at the security desk-an extra beat before the guard waves me through. Then the lobby. Conversations dip. A laugh cuts off mid-syllable. I catch my reflection in the glass and barely recognize myself.
Whispers follow.
They stop when I pass.
Camille walks beside me, chin high, daring anyone to say something. She doesn’t need to. The building already feels… off.
Like I’ve violated an unspoken rule.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.