Filed to story: Violet and Rowan Ashcroft Book PDF Free
The door closes.
Silence settles.
Avery shifts in her chair, then looks at me, forcing a brittle laugh. “So… when is my replacement due?”
I don’t answer right away.
I let the question sit there and rot.
“She already arrived,” I say finally.
Avery blinks. Looks around the office. The desk. The door.
Then it hits her.
Her spine goes rigid. “No,” she says sharply. “No, that’s not funny.”
I meet her gaze.
Her face drains of color.
“You can’t be serious,” she breathes. “That’s-this is delusional. She’s-she’s a receptionist,”
“She was,” I correct.
Avery laughs again, high and unsteady. “Rowan, come on. This is insane.”
I give her a look.
The same one I give board members when they overstep.
She shuts up immediately.
O ODG
“You said you needed help,” I remind her. “Get to it.”
She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I know it’s only been a day, okay? But I can’t find anything. I’ve applied everywhere and no one’s calling me back. I keep getting rejected.”
She looks at me, eyes pleading now instead of furious.
“I was wondering if you could… help. Maybe make a call. Put in a word.”
I lean back in my chair and study her.
This is the part she doesn’t understand.
The part she never has.
“I don’t place people,” I say evenly. “I invest in them.”
She waits for me to soften.
I don’t.
Instead, I write quickly on a notepad and slide it across the desk.
A location. A time.
“This is all I’m doing,” I say. “Be on time. Do the work. Don’t mention my name unless asked.”
Her hands shake as she takes it.
“This won’t be like this job,” I continue. “No perks. No protection. No tolerance.”
She nods. “Thank you-“
“Don’t come back,” I cut in. “Don’t call. Don’t try to leverage this.”
I press the intercom. “Security.”
Avery flinches.
As they escort her out, I finally exhale.
The system is stable again.Violet
It’s just before lunch when my phone rings.
Blocked number.
I stare at it for a second longer than usual, thumb hovering over the screen. Normally I’d let it go to voicemail. Blocked numbers are almost always trouble. Politicians. Reporters. Someone who doesn’t want a record.
But something twists low in my stomach.
I answer.
“This is Violet Pierce.”
There’s a pause on the other end. A breath. Measured. Professional.
“Ms. Pierce,” a man says, voice calm in a way that feels practiced. “I’m calling from the county morgue.”
The words don’t land right away.
They float. Hang in the air between us.
“I’m calling in regard to your brother, Drew Pierce,” he continues. “We need you to come down as soon as possible to collect his personal effects and discuss funeral arrangements.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“I’m at work,” I say automatically. “I- I’ll try to get there as soon as I can, but I can’t guarantee-“
“That’s fine,” he says gently. Too gently. “We understand. Please come when you’re able.”
When the call ends, I don’t move.
The office keeps going around me. Phones ringing. Keyboards clicking. Someone laughing too loudly near the elevators.
My screen blurs.
I blink hard and look up just as Camille swivels in her chair across from me, already watching.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, low.
I swallow. “The morgue.”
Her face changes instantly. No questions. No hesitation.
“You need to go,” she says.
“I can’t just ” I stop myself. My voice is tight. “I can’t miss work.”
Camille stands, walks around her desk, and plants her hands on mine where they’re clenched on the edge of the counter.
“Violet,” she says carefully, “this is not something you put on hold.”
I shake my head. “I just got promoted. Everything’s already-“
“I don’t care,” she cuts in. “This is your brother.”
The word brother hits harder now than it has all morning.
She exhales slowly. “You’re going to Rowan. Right now.”
My stomach flips.
The idea of missing work-of leaving my post-feels wrong in a way I can’t explain. Like stepping out of line when the line is the only thing holding me upright.
“I don’t think-“
“Violet,” Camille says, firmer now. “This is not optional.”
I look past her, down the corridor toward Rowan’s office.
Against every instinct I have-
I nod.
I step away from the desk and walk down the hall, my heels sounding too loud against the floor. Rowan’s door is slightly ajar.
Inside, his voice is sharp.
“Don’t test me,” he snaps into the phone. “You want to play politics, do it without dragging my name into it-“
Silence.
Then, quieter but no less lethal: “We’re done.”
He hangs up and looks up just as I knock.
“Pierce,” he says. “Come in.”
I step inside and close the door behind me.
He studies me for half a second, then sighs. “Apologies for the language.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
“What’s wrong?”
O ODG
IG
I don’t sit.
“The morgue called,” I say. The words feel unreal coming out of my mouth. “They need me to come down to collect my brother’s things. And to… arrange the funeral.”
Rowan doesn’t speak right away.
He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder.
“How soon?” he asks.
“As soon as possible,” I say. “I told them I’d try, but I can’t guarantee-“
“Go,” he says.
The word is immediate. Final.
I blink. “What?”
“You’re going,” he repeats. “Now.”
I hesitate. “The office-“
“Will function,” he cuts in. “It did before you were hired. It will do so for a few hours.”
I swallow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And-“I glance toward the door. “Camille?”
“Bring her,” Rowan says without hesitation. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“I don’t want this to cause problems,” I say quietly.
Rowan’s gaze sharpens. “This,” he says, gesturing between us, “is not a problem. This is life.”
I nod once.
“Take the rest of the afternoon,” he adds. “I don’t expect you back.”
The words feel unreal. Unallowed.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Rowan pauses, then adds, “Text me when you’re done.”
I don’t ask why.
I just nod again.
When I step back into the lobby, Camille is already standing, bag over her shoulder, keys in hand.
“You good?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good,” she says. “Let’s go.”
As we head toward the elevators, I glance back once.
Rowan is already on another call, voice controlled, posture steady-holding the building together the way I usually do.
The car door shuts with a dull thud, sealing us inside.
Camille pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic without turning on the radio. The city hums around us-engines, horns, life continuing like nothing
2 has changed.
I stare out the window for a moment before the question slips out of me.
