Chapter 22

Chapter 22
Ashley
"Luther, can you bring that big-ass box in here?" I holler, half-bent over another one stuffed to the brim with every type of shoe you could think of.
He grunts something from down the hall—probably a yes, probably a complaint, probably both—but I don't even look up. I'm too busy trying to untangle a pair of heels that somehow braided themselves together like they were planning a jailbreak.
It's been a week since I officially moved in with Gray.
Seven days.
One hundred and seventy-something hours.
A blur of filming content for my socials, pretending I haven't been living out of duffel bags my whole adult life since my grandparents kicked me out, and jumping my man's bones the second he walks through the door like he just came back from war.
And between all that?
I've been tackling this mountain one cardboard box at a time.
I swear, I had no idea I owned this much shit.
Like—none.
When everything was tucked in my little apartment, it seemed manageable. Then Gray had it all packed up, and the truth hit me in the face like, "Damn girl, you been living in a closet full of chaos."
Now it's all spread across his big, beautiful house like a glitter bomb went off at a bougie yard sale.
And the worst part?
Every time I open a box, I find something I absolutely do not remember buying.
A crop top I've never worn.
Three identical pairs of black boots.
A $500 dress with tags still on it.
A vibrator in a color I don't even like.
At this point, I'm convinced someone broke into my apartment and added shit just to make me look like a hoarder.
I pause, nudging a pile of stilettos aside as I scan the room—my room now. Jesus. Even thinking that feels insane. My chest does this stupid fluttery thing every time I remember I live here now. With a man. With Gray Bennett.
The same man who used to barely text me back now has my lashes on his bathroom counter and my wigs hanging on the wall like decor.
The realization slams into me like a ton of bricks: God, I'm domesticated now.
Like a sexy rescue cat.
A sexy rescue cat with thirty-plus boxes of who-the-hell-knows-what and a man who would turn the world to ash for me.
Luther stomps into the doorway, sweat beading his forehead like I asked him to haul in a baby elephant instead of a box labeled Clothes #5.
He drops it with a loud huff. "Woman, what the hell is in these things? Weights? Bricks? The bodies of your enemies?"
I grin, slicing open the tape. "A lady never reveals her secrets."
He mutters something about my secrets needing a forklift, but I barely hear him. Because underneath the crazy shit, there's this warm, ridiculous feeling bubbling in my chest.
This is my life now.
Unpacking my shit in my man's house.
Living with him.
Waking up in his bed.
Acting like a whole-ass wife even though he can't technically ask me to be one yet.
And honestly?
It feels damn good.
Like maybe, for the first time in my life, I landed somewhere I actually want to stay.
Forever.
Which should probably send me running for the hills. Because it's not like I haven't lived with a guy before. I have. Twice. Both times lasted... what? Three days?
I'd start all excited, pretending I was ready to play house, and then—boom. That cornered, smothered feeling would sneak in. The walls felt closer. His breathing sounded too loud. His toothbrush next to mine made me want to find the nearest window to jump out of.
By day three I'd be packing at two a.m., hauling my ass back to my place where nobody expected me to fold their laundry or share my Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
And once I left?
Relationship dead.
Buried.
No resurrection.
So the fact that I've been here a whole week—mostly voluntarily, since Gray made sure I couldn't run back to my apartment even if I wanted to—without feeling trapped, without planning escape routes, without inventing fake errands just to breathe?
That shit is wild.
Because I'm not used to staying.
I'm not used to wanting to stay.
But this feeling?
I wouldn't change it for the world.
As I finally empty three more boxes into the huge walk-in closet, I take a step back, hands on my hips, and admire all the work I've knocked out so far.
"Okay, yeah... this is good enough for now," I mutter, suddenly aware of how tired I am and how badly I need a damn break.
Plopping down on the bed, I grab my phone off the nightstand and immediately fire off a text to the group chat with Alyssa and Chelsea.
Me: Why didn't y'all tell me I had this much shit? Not even halfway done unpacking yet.
Chelsea: We seriously had to tell you that? You go on a shopping spree like every weekend.
Alyssa: Girl... you turned your entire second bedroom into a closet. I assumed you knew you had a retail store hiding in your apartment.
I groan, flopping back dramatically.
Me: I should've taken Gray's offer when he suggested getting a professional organizer. I cannot do all this shit by myself.
Alyssa: Luther's there, right? Tell me he's not just standing around talking shit instead of actually helping.
Me: He's been whining all morning. I need backup. Y'all able to escape for a bit?
Chelsea's bubble pops up immediately.
Chelsea: Bitch, say less. I'll be there in fifteen.
Alyssa chimes in.
Alyssa: Guess since I've got a nanny now, I can actually come. I'll be on my way soon. Don't kill Luther before we get there.
I huff out a laugh.
Me: No promises.
Tossing my phone aside, I push myself up off the bed and head for the kitchen, fully prepared to pour myself a well-deserved drink after the morning I've had and wait for my girls to come to the rescue.
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A few hours later, Alyssa and Chelsea are sitting cross-legged on the floor with me, knee-deep in a fresh heap of clothes I swear I didn't own yesterday.
Alyssa takes a tiny sip of the mimosa I finally convinced her she could enjoy—considering that by the time we're done with this shit, the buzz will be long gone anyway.
She looks happy and stress-free today. The nanny must be taking a lot of the load off of her, and good.
She needed it. Desperately.
I slide a sparkly purple shirt onto a hanger and wiggle my brows at her. "So, Mrs. Sterling," I tease, dragging out the title just to make her blush, "what are we doing for your bachelorette party? Gray told me he's throwing a surprise bachelor party for the guys."
She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Let me guess? Rapture's?"
Chelsea barks out a laugh. "Where else? You know the Reapers aren't about to have a bachelor party without tits and ass."
I make a face so hard my jaw aches. "Ugh. Men are disgusting."
I pause, lifting a finger like I'm issuing a formal correction.
"But not mine, of course. My man is a fucking gentleman."
Alyssa gives me a mock look of disbelief. "Have you really reformed him that quickly?"
I grin, all teeth and trouble. "Girl, please. This pussy works wonders."
Chelsea chokes on her drink.
I keep going, because of course I do. "He communicates now. He brings his ass home in time for dinner. And he puts it down every night like it's his damn job."
I sweep a hand down my body like I'm presenting myself as an award-winning sculpture. "Look at me. I am one very fucking happy woman right now."
Alyssa laughs, soft and warm. "I do see that. And I love that for you. Both of you."
Chelsea pops a grape into her mouth, shaking her head. "I'm just glad to see that you finally have a man that can handle you and your attitude. That's never been done in the history of ever."
"Uh, excuse me," I say, flipping my braids back, "we handle each other's attitudes."
Chelsea snorts. "Right. Sure. Keep tellin' yourself that."
Alyssa grins into her mimosa. "It's okay, Ash. Let her have her delulu moment."
I flip them both off with the hand not holding a sports bra. "Y'all are haters. Certified."
They burst into laughter, and I can't help but join in—because honestly?
If anyone's gonna clown me for being stupid in love, I'm glad it's them.
"Anyway," I say, tossing a tank top into the maybe pile, "back to your bachelorette party... are we getting male strippers or...?"
Alyssa shoots me a look so flat it could level a building. "Absolutely not."
Chelsea gasps dramatically, hand to her chest. "What do you mean you don't need another dick swinging in your face when you already have three of them?"
I throw my hands up in defeat. "You know what—my bad, you're right. I'm sure King's dick alone would send the stripper home sobbing."
Alyssa's face goes bright red, but she laughs anyway before quickly steering the conversation somewhere safe.
"Aside from strippers," she says, pointing at both of us like we're unruly toddlers, "as much as I know I might regret it... I'll give you guys free rein to plan whatever you want. And I'll happily show up."
Chelsea gasps. "For real?"
Alyssa nods, resigned but smiling. "For real."
I clap my hands, plans already exploding like fireworks behind my eyes. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."
"No, no it's not," Alyssa groans, dragging a hand down her face like she's already bracing for the chaos.
I wink, hoping it eases her mind a little. "Relax, babe. We're just giving you the send-off every woman marrying three badass biker men deserves."
"And that's what concerns me," Alyssa mutters.
An unbothered grin spreads across my face. "Too late, sis. You handed over the reins. Now enjoy the ride."
Before she can fire back, I scoop up an armful of clothes on hangers and head into the closet.
As I start putting them up, a box I definitely didn't notice before catches my eye. It's sitting in the corner, way up on the top shelf like it's been hiding from me on purpose.
Standing on my tippy toes, I reach for it—stretching just enough to feel the burn in my calves and the irritation in my soul.
"What the hell is this?" I mutter, fingertips brushing against the smooth black metal.
With one last stretch, I manage to snag the edge and drag it down into my arms. The box is lighter than I imagined, which immediately makes me suspicious—because something's definitely in here, and it's not a gun or anything obvious.
Whatever Gray is hiding, I'm about to find out.
I plop down on the carpet with the box in hand. To my surprise, it doesn't even have a lock on it.
Taking a deep breath, I hook my fingers under the lid.
Inside... there's a pile of photos.
My stomach drops.
With shaky hands, I go through them one by one.
The first picture hits me right in the chest—Gray, Alyssa, and his parents.
Gray's father is wearing his cut, one big hand resting on the shoulder of a tiny Gray—maybe seven or eight—standing beside him. And Gray... he actually has a smile on his cute little face. A real one. Wide. Innocent. Unburdened.
His dad's other arm is thrown around their mom, who's smiling too—soft, warm, like someone who lived her life to the fullest even if she was sick.
And Alyssa?
She's perched on Gray's father's bike, grinning like she owns the whole damn world. Little pigtails, hands on the handlebars, the cutest troublemaker you've ever seen.
They look... happy.
Painfully, effortlessly happy, like nothing in the world could tear them apart.
My chest constricts tighter as I keep going through the photos, flipping through snapshot after snapshot of them—real family moments, birthdays, holidays.
As the years pass, Gray's father's eyes become harder.
Gray's smile fades.
The only people that are blissfully unaware are Alyssa and her mother.
My throat squeezes hard.
And then, when I reach the very last photo, my heart damn near stutters to a stop.
Because the next picture isn't a family moment.
It's him and Christine at the altar.
Gray in a black suit, his hands cupping her face like she's the only person on earth. Christine in this low-cut white lace gown, eyes closed, leaning into him like she knows that kiss belongs to her and always will.
A kiss meant for forever.
My fingers freeze on the edge of the photo, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
God.
I wasn't ready for this one.
Like—not at fucking all.
"That dress makes you look like a whore," I mutter bitterly, tossing the photo aside into the box.
Jealousy surges through me like a hot iron, scorching up my spine as my eyes land on the next thing inside: a black velvet box.
Fuck.
I carefully lift it like it's a damn ticking time bomb, my breathing going shallow like even the air is scared of what's inside.
A wedding ring sits there, gleaming up at me like it's mocking every inch of my confidence.
My stomach plummets straight into my ass.
Why... why the hell does he still have this?
Why didn't he throw it away?
Toss that shit into the ocean or something?
Why is it sitting here—hidden in our closet—when he's supposed to be moving on with me now?
My fingers tremble around the velvet box, anger and insecurity twisting together so fast I can't tell which one is winning.
"Fuck," I whisper, my voice barely holding itself together.
"Ash, you okay in there?" Alyssa suddenly calls, peeping her head in the doorway. "We've got more clothes ready to hang up."
"Uh...yeah," I lie, snapping the lid shut so fast it nearly clips my fingers.
I don't even look at her.
I can't.
Not until I scrape my face back into something that doesn't scream, I think my man's still in love with his wife and I don't know what the fuck to do about it.
Keeping my eyes glued to the floor, I slide the ring box back into the metal one, shut it tight, and lift the whole thing up.
My hands shake slightly as I stretch onto my toes and shove it back where it was, tucked away at the top of the closet where I can pretend I never saw it.
Out of sight.
Definitely not out of mind.
I know I should say something to my girls. Maybe get their opinion. Or reassurance.
But right now?
Right now, I just want to bury it.
Pretend I never snooped into Gray's shit. Never opened that box. Never saw the piece of jewelry that signified forever with another woman.
Because in one split second, reality slapped me across the face:
Gray may have moved me in.
He may fuck me like he's starving.
He may look at me like I'm the only woman who makes his heart beat.
But he hasn't let go of her.
And I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to stand here—unpacking my future with him—while feeling like his past is still lingering just out of sight.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready to slide right back in if she ever decided to show up.
And if she did?
I feel like he'd leave me.
Break my heart without a second thought.
Pretend like I never even existed.
The thought hits me so hard it's like the floor shifts beneath me.
My heart's still racing, breath shaky and uneven, when I step out of the closet. Alyssa's standing there with a handful of sleek jackets already on hangers. Meanwhile, Chelsea's still putting clothes on hangers with machine-level efficiency, stacking everything into perfectly organized piles.
And me?
I feel like I'm trying not to self-destruct.
"You know what," I blurt out, marching over and snatching a black low-cut dress off the top of the pile. "Fuck these clothes. Text your men and let them know we're going out tonight. And before you say it—I know. Luther can drive, and they can send a couple of prospects to babysit us from the corner."
Alyssa freezes mid-step, a tiny frown forming as she studies my face way too closely.
Oh no.
Here we go.
"What happened?" she asks, her voice soft but sharp with that stern mom voice she's developed.
I wave her off so fast I'm basically swatting at the air. "Nothing. I just think instead of drowning in clothes all night, we should take advantage of the fact that my family-oriented besties are actually free for once."
Chelsea arches a brow. "But we didn't bring anything to wear."
I gesture to the room like I'm presenting a damn department store. "Shit, pick something. No excuses. C'mon—I wanna have fun with my girls."
Alyssa and Chelsea share a look—one of those silent conversations where they're both clearly analyzing my entire soul right in front of me.
Alyssa turns back to me with a resigned sigh. "Fine. I'll let the guys know, but you are telling me what's really going on eventually."
I plaster on a grin so fake it should come with a return policy. "Fine. Later."
Right now, I just need loud music, strong drinks, and a distraction big enough to erase that stupid velvet ring box from my head.
And if I can't...
There's a real chance that after tonight, I might just pack my shit right back up and find somewhere else to stay.