Filed to story: Violet and Rowan Ashcroft Book PDF Free
It’s a dress. Black. Clean lines. Nothing flashy, but the fabric is heavy, expensive. I glance at the tag and nearly choke.
“Camille-“
“No,” she cuts in. “Don’t look at the numbers. Look at the clothes.”
I follow her to the fitting room on autopilot, arms already full. Dresses. Blazers. Trousers that look like they were tailored for someone who never slouches. I step into the fitting room and stare at myself in the mirror.
This doesn’t feel like me.
But then again… neither does anything else lately.
I change quickly, the fabric sliding over my skin in a way my old clothes never did. When I step out, Camille’s eyes widen.
“Oh,” she says. “There you are.”
The store associate appears instantly. “That fit is stunning.”
I glance back at the mirror. The dress hugs where it should, skims where it doesn’t. I look taller.Sharper. Like someone who knows where she’s going.
I swallow. “It’s… a lot.”
“It’s correct,” Camille says. “There’s a difference.”
We repeat the process over and over. Dresses. Pantsuits. Pencil skirts with blouses that don’t wrinkle when you breathe. Jackets that make my shoulders look like they belong in boardrooms, not behind desks.
Compliments follow me from fitting room to mirror.
“That color is perfect on you.”
“You wear that like you own the place.”
“Are you sure you don’t work in fashion?”
Each one makes me uneasy. Like I’m getting away with something.
At the register, the associate starts folding items carefully. Camille adds more without hesitation; belts, scarves, shoes.
“Heels,” she says, holding up a pair of black stilettos. “And flats. You don’t live in pain.”
I glance at the total and feel my chest tighten. “This is too much.”
Camille leans in, voice low. “You’re not buying clothes. You’re buying armor.”
That shuts me up.
The next store is lingerie.
I try to protest. I fail.
“You cannot be running a company in bras that gave up on you in 2019,” Camille says, already pulling sets from the wall. “Trust me.”
I stand there, face warm, while a fitting specialist measures me properly. When she hands me a new bra, I don’t even recognize the feeling when I put it on -supportive, comfortable, like it was designed for my body instead of forcing my body to adapt.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
Camille grins. “Right?”
We add underwear. Stockings. Seamless things I didn’t know existed. Camille tosses in neutral colors and a few darker ones “for confidence.”
I don’t ask what she means by that.
Jewelry comes next. Simple necklaces. Stud earrings. Nothing loud. Nothing desperate.
“Power doesn’t need to shout,” Camille says, fastening a delicate chain around my neck. “It just needs to be visible.”
By the time we leave the last store, my arms ache from bags. My head spins from price tags I tried not to look at
In the car, I finally say it. “This money… it makes me nervous.”
Camille starts the engine and glances at me. “Good.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It means you respect it,” she replies. “You’re not spending it to impress anyone. You’re spending it to survive.”
I look down at the bags in my lap. “I don’t want to change.”
Camille softens. “You’re not changing. You’re adapting. There’s a difference.”
We’re halfway out of the parking structure when Camille glances over at me, hands steady on the wheel.
“You’re not going back to that apartment,” she says.
It’s not a question.
I blink. “Camille-“
“No,” she cuts in gently but firmly. “You’re not.”
I open my mouth to argue. I always do. It’s reflex at this point.
But the words don’t come.
Because she’s right.
That apartment is thin walls and thinner locks. Rats in the stairwell. Sirens at three in the morning. Neighbors who fight like it’s a sport and cops who bang on the wrong doors just to make a point. Nights where I don’t sleep because sleep doesn’t feel safe.
And I’m exhausted.
Camille continues, softer now. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Not with everything going on. Not with… him gone.”
My throat tightens.
“I’ll take the bus,” I start weakly.
“You won’t,” she says. “Theo will drive us to work. Or I will. Or Rowan will send a car if he has to.” A beat. “You deserve better than survival mode.”
I stare out the window as the city passes, familiar and unforgiving.
“It would be nice,” I admit quietly, “to sleep. Just… sleep.”
Camille smiles, relieved. “Good. Because you’re moving in.”
She doesn’t wait for confirmation.
When we pull into her driveway, she’s already unloading bags, Hauling them inside like this was decided weeks ago, I follow, numb but grateful, as she leads me straight to the spare bedroom.
“You can change it however you want,” she says, flicking on the light. “Paint, rearrange, whatever. I don’t care.”
She pauses in the doorway. “If you absolutely want to pay rent, I’ll accept four hundred. That’ll cover power and water. Otherwise, shut up.”
I laugh softly despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” she says. “Get some sleep.”
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?”
