Chapter 86 Dressed to Control
Violet
I wake slowly this time.
Not from screaming. Not from fear.
Just from the quiet rustle of fabric.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. The sheets are softer than mine. The mattress firmer. The air smells faintly of clean linen and whatever expensive cologne Rowan wears that seems to cling to everything in this room.
Then I see her.
A woman I don’t recognize stands near the bathroom door, carefully hanging up clothes on a portable rack. The hangers barely make a sound when they slide into place.
I push myself up on one elbow.
She turns immediately, startled but composed. “Oh—good morning, Miss Pierce. I apologize if I disturbed you.”
I blink. “It’s fine.”
Her expression is polite and professional. Neutral.
“Mr. Ashcroft wanted to ensure you received appropriate business attire for work this morning,” she says, gesturing lightly to the clothes she’s just hung. “They were delivered earlier.”
Of course they were.
Of course he did that.
I hesitate for half a second before nodding. “Thank you.”
She inclines her head. “If you require anything else, I will be downstairs.”
Then she’s gone.
The door closes softly behind her.
I sit there for a long moment staring at the clothing rack like it might disappear if I blink.
Business attire.
For work.
Like nothing happened.
Like last night didn’t happen.
Like I didn’t wake up screaming in his bed.
Rowan isn’t here.
The side of the mattress is cool.
He’s probably downstairs already. Showered. Dressed. Back in CEO mode.
My body aches as I sit up fully. My shoulders feel tight. I must’ve been clinging to him all night, twisted in some strange position.
Or maybe I’m getting sick.
Grief exhaustion, Camille would call it.
I glance at the clock.
7:02 a.m.
Plenty of time.
I slip out of bed and head into the bathroom. The mirror reflects a slightly swollen version of me, puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tangled from sleep. I look tired.
But not broken.
I turn the shower on hot. Steam fills the room quickly, wrapping around me as I step under the water. I stand there longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen the tension in my shoulders, letting it wash away the remnants of the nightmare.
Calder.
The knife.
The blood.
Rowan dead.
My stomach twists.
I press my palm against the tile and inhale slowly.
He wasn’t dead.
He came the second I screamed.
He ran to me.
That matters.
The water runs down my spine, and for a brief moment I let myself lean into the memory of his arms around me. The way he didn’t hesitate. The way he held me like I was something fragile but not weak.
It’s dangerous how much that comforted me.
I turn the water off before my thoughts spiral.
When I step back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, the clothes catch my eye again.
Devin definitely picked these out.
Or Rowan instructed him precisely.
I walk over slowly and run my fingers along the fabric.
Black and white pencil skirt. Structured. Clean lines.
White silk blouse.
A black blazer that matches perfectly, tailored, sharp at the shoulders.
Sheer pantyhose.
And my black heels from yesterday, polished and placed neatly beside the rack.
I can’t help the small, disbelieving huff that escapes me.
Control and protection.
Thin line.
I dress slowly.
The skirt fits perfectly, hugging my hips without being tight. The blouse slides over my skin like liquid, cool and smooth. The blazer settles over my shoulders with precision.
When I slip on the heels, I feel taller.
Sharper.
Put together.
By the time I face the mirror again, the girl from last night, the one sobbing into Rowan’s chest, is gone.
In her place stands a woman who looks like she owns the room.
The black and white is striking. Clean. Commanding.
My hair goes into a sleek low ponytail. Minimal makeup. Simple studs in my ears.
I straighten.
The outfit makes me look like a boss.
Like a woman in charge.
And maybe I am.
Maybe grief doesn’t erase that.
Maybe fear doesn’t either.
I grab my bag from the dresser and pause at the bedroom door.
For half a second, I consider knocking on Rowan’s office door downstairs and pretending none of this is complicated.
Pretending he didn’t kiss me like he meant it.
Pretending I didn’t wake up wanting him to still be there.
I open the door.
The house is quiet but awake. I can hear muted voices from downstairs. Movement. Coffee brewing.
I square my shoulders and start down the stairs.
If he wants to act like nothing happened—
Fine.
So can I.
The staircase curves toward the main hallway, sunlight spilling in through the tall windows along the landing. The house feels different in the morning. Less like a fortress. More like something almost normal.
Almost.
I smooth my hands over my skirt as I descend, the click of my heels echoing softly against the marble below. I can hear faint voices coming from the kitchen—Camille’s laugh, Theo saying something that sounds mildly inappropriate, the low rumble of Devin’s response.
Then—
“Morning, ma’am.”
I glance to my right.
It’s him. The security guard from yesterday. The one who ran to the store for me without hesitation. The one Theo accused me of flirting with.
He’s standing near the foyer now, dressed in a tailored security uniform instead of casual attire. Clean lines. Earpiece. Professional.
He gives me a polite wave.
“Good morning,” I reply, stepping off the last stair.
He shifts slightly, straightening. “Mr. Ashcroft asked me to accompany you today. I’ll be handling your movements to and from the office.”
My brows lift faintly. “Handling my movements?”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Escorting you, ma’am. Ensuring your safety.”
I nod slowly.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
He beams at that, just slightly. “It’s my job. And I look forward to assisting you today.”
I smile at him—genuine, but contained. “I’m glad. At least I know I’ll be very well protected.”
His chest puffs just a fraction at that. “You will be.”
I turn to continue down the hall toward the kitchen—
And stop.
Rowan is standing there.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just standing in the middle of the hallway like he’s been waiting for me to reach that exact spot.
His posture is immaculate. Suit jacket already on. Tie perfectly straight. Hair dry and styled. Completely composed.
Except for his eyes.
They’re hard.
Dark.
And very clearly not pleased.
I hold his gaze for a beat.
He steps slightly into my path, not blocking me entirely—but enough.
“Are you doing okay this morning?” he asks.
The tone is even.
Professional.
But there’s something underneath it. Something sharp.
I offer him a small, restrained smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking, Mr. Ashcroft.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the formality.
The use of his title.