A soft knock makes me jump.
"Grace?" Asher's voice calls out, muffled through the door. "You still in there?"
I swipe at my face frantically. "Just a minute," I say, trying to hide my emotion.
"Open the door."
Not a question. A command.
My hands shake as I turn the lock. My breathing is still ragged, and I know my face is still blotchy and coated with tears. The door swings open, and Asher fills the frame, those steel eyes scanning my face immediately.
His expression shifts. "What happened?" Stepping into the room quickly, he closes the door and locks it behind us.
"Nothing." I force myself to sound calmer. "I'm fine."
That has his eyebrows pinching. "You're crying."
"No, I just—" I turn away, but his hand catches my chin, gentle but firm, turning me back.
"Don't lie to me, Sugar. What happened?"
His genuine concern cracks something open. The words spill out before I can stop them.
"I don't know." I gasp in a breath. "I just— I can't seem to do anything right, and I'm going to fail." More tears fall downmy cheeks as I try to speak clearly. "These women were talking about me in the hallway, saying I’m a gold digger and that I shouldn’t be with you. And he was right; I’m a terrible writer. What happens when all this is ov— I just can't handle this. I can't—" I hiccup, cutting off my verbal onslaught.
Of everything I just said, Asher latches onto one piece of it.
"Whowas right?"
38
ASHER
Grace's face crumples further, her body folding in on itself as she wraps her arms around her middle. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, the marble walls closing in as I watch my wife unravel.
"Grace." I step closer, gripping her shoulders firmly. "Who told you that you're a terrible writer?"
She shakes her head, tears streaming faster now. "It doesn't matter?—"
"It matters to me." My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but the protective rage building in my chest won't be contained. Someone hurt her. Someone made her believe she wasn't enough.
I have to calm myself, because I know if I demand answers from her, it will only get her more worked up. Instead, I pull her against my chest, flattening my palm as I run circles over her back. I steady my breathing, and eventually hers follows suit. She tries to move away, but for a long moment, I don't let her. We sit like that, holding on tight to each other and breathing deeply. It's calming, peaceful. Maybe the most peaceful I've feltin my life. But still, rearing under the surface is something she's not telling me.
"Tell me what happened. Please." I soften my tone.
Grace stays pressed against me, like she can't bear to face me, and that's okay. I keep soothing her as she finally speaks. "I had an agent. I met him at NYU, at a mixer for seniors in the creative writing program."
Ice floods my veins at the way her voice wavers.
"He seemed so interested in my work." She continues, words tumbling out faster now. "Said my manuscript was brilliant, one of the best things he'd read. He signed me immediately. We had meetings to go over edits, notes, revisions. He'd have me come to his office, and we'd work through chapters together."
My hands tighten around her.
"At first, it was professional. But then..." She swallows hard. "He started sitting closer. His hand would linger on my arm, my back. The meetings moved from conference rooms to his private office. One day, he..." A shaky breath makes her pause. "His hand went too low. I pushed him away, told him I wasn't interested. But he kept trying, saying he'd fallen in love with my mind, that we had this connection."
Fury coils, hot and vicious, in my gut. I force myself to stay still, to let her finish.
"When I kept refusing, he changed. Got mean. Said I was a terrible writer, that my work was garbage. That he'd only signed me out of pity, and if I wanted my book published, I'd need to... 'help him out.'" The last words come out barely above a whisper. "I left. Reported him to his agency, but nothing happened. He's too connected, too powerful. They said it was my word against his."
