Chapter 25 Without Asking
Violet
I wake up before the alarm.
Not rested. Not refreshed. Just… awake.
The room is quiet in a way I’m not used to. No shouting through the walls. No bass rattling the floorboards. No sirens slicing through sleep every twenty minutes. For a moment, I lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting for something bad to happen.
Nothing does.
Camille is still asleep down the hall, door cracked open, soft breathing drifting through the house. I check the time—early. Earlier than I need to be, but my body doesn’t know how to relax anymore. So I get up.
The shower helps a little. Hot water, steady pressure, the kind that forces you to focus on sensation instead of spiraling thoughts. I stand under it longer than necessary, letting the steam fog the mirror, letting myself pretend this is just another morning.
When I step into the kitchen afterward, reality snaps back into place.
Bare counters. Empty cabinets. A fridge that hums loudly but contains almost nothing.
No coffee pot.
I stare at the counter for a long second, then at the black card sitting in my bag where I left it last night.
I sigh.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
I pull my phone out and open Walmart.
If I’m going to be here—and it’s starting to feel like I am—then this space needs to function. Not just exist.
I don’t hesitate.
Coffee maker first. A good one. One that does iced coffee because mornings don’t always want to be hot. A toaster oven because bagels are non-negotiable. A panini press because… obvious reasons. A blender—because I refuse to give up my morning smoothies no matter how chaotic life gets.
Groceries follow. Eggs. Bacon. Bagels. Cream cheese. Fruit. Greens. Milk. Coffee beans. Things that make a kitchen feel lived in.
I select fast delivery and don’t even blink at the extra charge.
If I’m doing this, I’m doing it now.
By the time everything arrives, I’m already moving on autopilot. Boxes opened. Appliances unpacked. Coffee brewing. Bacon sizzling in a pan I found tucked away in a lower cabinet. Bagels warming in the toaster oven.
The smell fills the kitchen.
It feels… good.
I’m cracking eggs when Camille stumbles in, hair wild, eyes half-open, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and confusion.
She stops dead in the doorway.
“What the hell happened?” she asks hoarsely.
I glance at her. “Morning.”
She looks from the coffee maker to the blender to the groceries lined up on the counter. “Did we get robbed by a very considerate chef?”
I arch a brow. “If I’m living here, the kitchen is my domain. And it needed… help.”
She opens her mouth to argue.
I cut her off by setting a glass of iced coffee in front of her. Then a plate. Bacon. Eggs. Perfectly cooked.
Her eyes light up.
She doesn’t say a word.
She just sits and eats.
I hide my smile by turning back to the stove.
Once she’s a few bites in, she finally groans. “Okay. You win. I accept your hostile takeover.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not returning anything.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the rain starting to patter softly against the windows.
“Looks like rain all day,” Camille says, glancing outside.
“Great,” I reply. “Guess I’ll go with something that won’t wrinkle when I inevitably get soaked.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I’ll wear boots. Learned that lesson the hard way.”
I pack lunches while we talk—simple, efficient, practiced. Something else that feels normal.
When I hand her a container, she blinks. “You’re doing lunch too?”
“I meal prep under stress,” I say. “It’s a flaw.”
“It’s a gift.”
We move around each other easily now, like we’ve been doing this longer than a day.
“Are you really going to come in early with me every day?” I ask casually, though I’m watching her reflection in the microwave door.
She sighs. “Yeah. I should. I’ve been… slacking.”
“That’s not like you.”
She shrugs. “Life happens.”
I nod. I get that.
We’re almost done when she clears her throat.
“So,” she says. “I should probably tell you something.”
I pause, hands stilling over the lunch bag.
“I’ve been sleeping with Theo.”
I don’t turn around.
I don’t gasp.
I don’t drop anything.
She waits.
“…That’s it?” she finally asks. “No reaction?”
I zip the bag and set it aside. “I knew.”
She blinks. “You did?”
“The way he watches you,” I say simply. “You don’t look at people like that unless you care.”
Camille’s expression softens, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “Huh.”
I glance at her then. “Are you happy?”
She nods. “Yeah. I am.”
“Good,” I say. “You deserve that.”
She smiles, small and real.
The rain picks up outside.
We grab our things and head for the door.
We step out onto the porch and stop short.
A black SUV idles at the curb, lights low, engine quiet. Not flashy. Not marked. Just… present. Like it’s been there longer than we have.
And then the driver steps forward.
He’s tall, dressed in a dark coat, already holding an umbrella out before either of us can react. He positions it over us smoothly, like this is routine.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Camille freezes beside me. “Uh—who the hell are you?”
The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. Just inclines his head slightly. “I was hired by Mr. Ashcroft to provide transportation this morning.”
My stomach drops.
Camille’s head snaps toward me. “Rowan Ashcroft?”
I don’t answer because I don’t have one.
The man continues, polite and professional. “I’ll be taking you both to Ashcroft Industries.”
Silence settles heavy between us, broken only by the rain tapping against the umbrella.
Camille slowly pulls her phone from her pocket. “I’m just—going to verify that.”
“Of course,” the man says calmly.
She steps aside and dials, pacing once before Theo picks up.
“Theo,” she says immediately. “There’s a black SUV outside my house and a man claiming Rowan sent him to pick us up.”
A pause.
Then Theo’s voice comes through loud enough that I can hear it faintly. “Yeah. That’s legit.”
Camille stops pacing. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Theo says. “Rowan set it up late last night. Said it was temporary.”
“Temporary?” she repeats.
“He didn’t specify,” Theo replies. “But if it helps, I’d be more concerned if he hadn’t done this.”
Camille glances at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “You knew about this?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Theo continues, “You’re safe. Driver’s solid. Name’s Marcus. Former private security.”
Camille sighs. “You’re really not going to explain this, are you?”
Theo chuckles. “Not my job.”
She ends the call and pockets her phone, looking between the SUV and me.
“Well,” she says slowly. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded again.”
I stare at the vehicle, at the quiet certainty of it waiting for us.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I mutter.
Camille snorts. “You never do.”