Page 37 of The Illusion
"Yeah."
"Your dad was pretty brutal to Devon."
Asher's hands tighten on the steering wheel. His knuckles go white. “The little teenage bitch? Who cares. Devon is fucking irrelevant. Fuck her.”
I freeze. "What?"
"I don’t care how he acts towards her. Didn’t you hear what he said?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's something dangerous underneath. "About my mother?"
"Asher—"
"He said I hadtantrumsabout her death." The words come out sharp, bitten off. "Like I was some spoiled kid throwing a fit because I didn't get what I wanted. She died of lung cancer when I was eight years old, and he called my grief a fucking tantrum."
I've never heard him sound like this. Raw. Wounded.
"And he wascheatingon her," Asher continues, his voice rising. "While she was dying. While she was in bed, too weak to get up, he was fucking a series of women back in the guest house. He couldn’t even take it off property. And tonight he sits there with his new wife, looking at her like she's the center of the goddamn universe, and he has the audacity to weaponize my mother's death to make a point about moving on?"
"Asher, I'm so sorry?—"
"He dismissed her. Likeshewas nothing. Likelosing herwas nothing." His jaw clenches. "And then he turned it around on me. Made it sound like I was the problem for caring that she died."
The car feels too small. I reach over and put my hand on his arm, but he doesn't respond. He's somewhere else, somewhere I can't reach. "Your father is… tough," I say quietly. "What he said was cruel and wrong."
"He's always been like this." Asher's voice drops. "Cold. Dismissive. Nothing is ever real to him unless it serves a purpose. My mother wasn't useful anymore, so she didn't matter. Her death didn't matter. My grief didn't matter."
I squeeze his arm. "You matter to me. Always. So does your grief. Everything you’re feeling is valid."
He doesn't answer. Just keeps driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. I look at him—at the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. I think about Dean's cruelty, the way he weaponized Asher's pain so casually. The way he fawned over Caroline while dismissing the memory of his first wife.
No wonder Asher is so angry. No wonder he's been cold and distant all night. I settle back in my seat, my hand still on his arm. All I can do is be here for him. Love him through this. He'll process it eventually, and I'll be right at his side when he does.
Six weeks later, we're back. I’ve been dreading tonight all week. The drive over is quiet in a different way than before. Before, Asher's silence felt like dread. Tonight it feels like something that has settled in and made itself comfortable. He doesn't grip the wheel. He just drives, and I watch the streetlights pass, and neither of us says much.
Caroline opens the door this time. She's wearing a deep green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. There are diamondsat her ears and throat, stones large enough they’re impossible to ignore. She looks like she was born in this house.
"Julie. Asher." She kisses the air near my cheek. "Come in, Dean's just finishing up a call."
Devon is already in the dining room, standing near the window with her phone in her hand. When she sees us, she smiles. "Hi."
Asher says hello, but walks away. He’s not himself and hasn’t been since we found out Dean got married. It’s up to me to make small talk with his stepsister, clearly.
"How's Lakeside?"
"Fine," she says.
I wait for more. It doesn't come. "Fine like actually fine, or fine like you don't want to talk about it?"
She snickers. "Fine like it's fine."
I let it go. Clearly she doesn’t want to talk. I remember being a distracted teenager. I get it.
"Dean got me a car," she says excitedly. "A Mercedes. It's in the garage."
"That's generous," I say.
"It's awesome," she answers. “It makes having to go to a new school almost worth it.”
Across the room, I notice Asher standing near the doorway with a glass of water he hasn't touched. He's watching Caroline move around the table, adjusting a centerpiece, speaking quietly to the server. His expression is unreadable, but his stillness has a quality to it. The way the air goes still before a storm.
