Filed to story: Violet and Rowan Ashcroft Book PDF Free
“I’m telling you, if they ask about the quarterly projections again, I’m walking,” he says into the phone, then spots me and lifts two fingers in greeting. “Call you back.”
He ends the call and smiles like it’s effortless.
“Morning, Violet.”
“Morning, Mr. Ashcroft,” I reply automatically.
He winces. “Theo. Please. If my brother hears you call me that, he’ll think I’ve been promoted.”
I almost smile. Almost.
Theo leans his elbows casually on the edge of the desk, glancing at the schedule folder Rowan left behind. “You’re here early.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I choose chaos,” he says lightly. “You look like you’re preventing it.”
I keep my eyes on my screen, answering another call and placing it on hold before responding. “Something like that.”
Theo’s gaze flicks to the coffee machine area, the faint dampness still visible on the floor despite my cleanup.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Avery?”
I don’t answer.
He chuckles under his breath. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He straightens, adjusting his tie. “You know, my entire department would collapse in under an hour without Camille. Rowan’s would collapse in under five minutes without you.”
“That’s not accurate,” I say flatly.
He tilts his head. “You’re right. Five minutes is generous.”
I glance up at him then, just briefly. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” he asks. “Because they’re true?”
“Because people overhear.”
Theo follows my gaze to the lobby, then back to me, his expression softening-not pitying, just aware. “Noted.”
He shifts his weight, voice dropping slightly. “You okay?”
I meet his eyes this time. He’s observant in a way Rowan isn’t-or maybe just observant differently. Less predatory. More… human.
“Yes,” I say.
Theo studies me for a second longer, like he knows that answer isn’t the whole truth but respects it anyway. Then he grins. “Well. If the world ends before noon, I assume you’ll tell me.”
“Of course.”
“Perfect.” He taps the desk lightly. “Try not to save the company without me today, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Theo Ashcroft is warmth and charm and noise.
Rowan is silence and pressure and weight.
Both powerful.
Both would toss me to the side given a chance.
Rowan
The security feed glows against the dark of my penthouse, the city stretched out beyond the windows like something already conquered. I rewind the footage with a flick of my finger, watching the timestamp roll backward until it lands just after midnight.
There.
Avery.
She moves through the employee kitchen like someone who’s never learned that machines don’t respond to panic. She presses buttons too hard. Too fast. Opens drawers she doesn’t need. Tries to force the coffee pot into doing what she wants instead of reading the instructions taped right above it.
I lean back slightly, arms crossed.
She pours water where it doesn’t belong. Grounds spill. She swears-loud, dramatic, useless. When the pot sputters and dies, she freezes like it betrayed her personally.
Water floods the counter. Spreads to the floor.
She stares at it.
Does nothing.
I fast-forward.
She wipes at the mess with a single paper towel, gives up, and leaves. No call to maintenance. No message to anyone competent. Just abandonment and the assumption that someone else will fix it.
Of course.
I tap the screen again and switch feeds.
The printer room is next.
She loads paper incorrectly. Slams the tray shut. Jabs at the screen. Hits print again. And again. And again.
The machine whirs obediently.
She smiles, relieved.
I skip forward.
Paper everywhere. Schedules stacked and spilling. The printer blinking red, out of paper again.
Avery stares at it like it’s mocking her.
Then she leaves.
No call. No explanation.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Interesting.
I fast-forward again.
Early morning.
Earlier than necessary.
Violet Pierce enters the frame.
No hesitation. No surprise. Just immediate assessment. She surveys the damage like it’s expected. Like she planned for it.
She rolls up her sleeves.
Cleans.
Methodical. Efficient. She unplugs the machine before touching water. Dries the counter. Mops the floor. Disposes of the grounds. Resets the coffee maker like she’s done it a hundred times.
Which she probably has.
She moves to the printer next.
Checks the tray.
Loads paper properly.
Watches the output.
Stops the flood of schedules before it gets worse. Recycles the excess without annoyance. Keeps one.
Just one.
She scans it.
Frowns.
I slow the footage.
She notices the removed meeting. Checks the system. Sees I removed it myself.
No reaction.
She updates the schedule without question. Reprints it once. Clean.
Then she makes the coffee.
IGCorrectly
She sets everything on the counter. Sits down. Puts on her headset. Answers a call like nothing happened
Like chaos doesn’t exist unless she allows it to.
I pause the feed.
Where was Avery?
I rewind. Check timestamps.
No call to me. No voicemail. No appearance at my penthouse. Which means she stayed at her own apartment, slept through the mess she made, and assumed-correctly-that Violet would handle it.
I tap the screen harder than necessary.
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
I don’t need Avery to function. I need her to stop being a liability.
I check the time.
Camille Carter arrives at 9:03.
Right on schedule.
That’s when I press the intercom. “Carter. Come to my office.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Surprise, then compliance. “Yes, Mr. Ashcroft.”
A minute later, she knocks.
“Come in.”
Camille steps inside cautiously. Her posture is professional, but there’s tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t expecting this. She isn’t my assistant. She doesn’t report to me directly.
That alone is enough to make people nervous.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Sit.”
She does.
Her eyes flick briefly to the desk. The screens. The city beyond the windows. She keeps her hands folded in her lap.
I don’t waste time. “Tell me what happened yesterday.”
Her brow furrows. “Yesterday?”
“With Violet,” I clarify. “She mentioned an external issue.”
Camille’s expression shifts immediately.
Guarded.
“I don’t think that’s something I should discuss,” she says carefully. “That’s Violet’s-“
I lift my gaze.
Not sharply. Not threateningly.
Just enough.
Camille exhales. “She should really be the one to tell you.”
“I didn’t ask her,” I reply. “I asked you.”
Silence stretches between us.
Camille looks torn. She glances at the door, then back at me. Finally, she straightens.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” she says.
“Of course,” I respond.
Her jaw tightens. “Violet’s brother is missing.”
That gets my attention.
“How long?”
“Almost a month,” Camille says. “He was helping pay for their mother’s rehab. When he disappeared, the bills stopped getting paid.”
I lean back slightly. “Rehab.”
“Yes,” she says. “Their mother’s been there for a while. Insurance doesn’t cover all of it.”
“And Violet is covering the rest,” I infer.
