ASHLEY
Nicci stands in the doorway like a ghost from another life, her hands folded neatly over her purse. For a mont, I think I am hallucinating. But then she steps inside and her scent fills the room. Strong, familiar and a tad bit nostalgic.
Her eyes sweep across the litter of balled-up sketches on the floor.
I lean back in my chair, twirling the pencil between my fingers. "You ca to gawk?"
"No." She counters, her lips tightening. "I am here because you called , rember?"
Right. I had. The call had been impulsive, desperate maybe. But watching her stand there, I rember why.
Nicci had always been my mirror, my muse, even when she was manipulative, jealous, and impossible. She has an eye for what cut through the noise. When I had creative block, she used to pull out of it with a single suggestion. Even a single tilt of her head could sway in a better direction whenever I was in a dilemma.
I slide the sketchpad toward her. "Didn’t think you’d bother but since you’re here, tear it apart and tell candidly what you think."
She perches on a seat, eyes flickering over the jagged lines I’d been fighting with all week. I expect her usual bluntness, her cruel honesty.
Instead, her eyes soften. "I think..." She steals a quick, nervous glance at to gauge my countenance and dips her head again.
"It’s okay." I assure her. "I can handle it." A smooth lie on my part.
"I can’t see the vision but I feel this is...scattered. It looks like you’re trying to force it into sothing pretty when it wants to be sothing else. You’re not listening to yourself."
That stings, because it’s true.
I look away, pretending the papers littered across the floor matter more than her opinion. "You think you know that well, still?"
She drops the sketchpad. "The only thing I know is that you’re struggling to ta that design, instead of letting it flourish into what it’s ant to be."
Her eyes et mine. "And...I know I am not entirely blaless for...all this. The timing of everything—our breakup, the way I left... it didn’t help your creative block. You don’t have to say it, but I know my exit was one more burden you didn’t need. I feel guilty."
Guilt sits heavy in her eyes. It makes want to tell her she is wrong, that I was already falling apart before she walked away. But I couldn’t give her that kindness.
I lean back, crossing my arms. "You didn’t ruin , Nicci" I say flatly. "Hate to break it to you but you’re not that powerful."
She flinches and tightens her grip on her purse. "I guess I should leave."
I watch her lurch to her feet and rub my temples as she makes her way to the door.
"WAIT. I’m sorry. I didn’t an to be an asshole. I’m just in a really dark place right now and it’s easy to be nasty to you just to make feel better about my situation." I leap to my feet and usher her back to her seat. "Please. I promise not to be a dick."
Slowly, she whirls toward and returns to her seat. "I’m sorry about your demotion, Ashley. I really am. I wish there was sothing I could do to help. I guess speaking to Brett won’t cut it..."
"There is sothing you can do." I cut her off. "If you feel bad, you can make it up to ."
Her brows arched. "How?"
"How else? Model for . When these are ready," I gesture to the sketches, "you’re going to model them. You used to be my muse. You can be useful again."
A hollow laugh escapes her. "Useful? That’s all I was?"
"No," I reply quietly. "You were more and you know that." I catch myself poking old mories of us and tighten my jaw. "But now you can be this. If you want redemption, wear my work."
She hesitates, then sighs. "That might not be possible. I’m thinking of signing with a new agency. They approached ."
I freeze, the air shifting. "An agency?"
"Yeah. They’re scouting for a fast-rising designer that everyone’s whispering about. His work is... different. Darker. Bolder. Riskier too. Not like your polished glamour, Ash. You know I love your designs to death but this designer, he’s rewriting the rules with his art. It kind of reminds of your old designs before the board started censoring your creativity. I really want to try sothing different with my career right now and my manager seems to think this would be the perfect coback."
Her voice holds a kind of reverence that intrigues , because I know exactly who she is talking about; Noxx.
I have seen Noxx’s designs flooding my feed. My fans tagging , whispering that maybe Ashley Rollins was slipping. Their comnts are thinly veiled insults: This is what Ashley Rollins used to be before he got watered down. This guy’s the future.
The comparison had gnawed at lately, probably fueling my lack of creativity. And now Nicci telling she might be the face of my competition?
A sour taste spreads across my tongue, but only because I am starting to realize how innately selfish we all are. I selfishly hoped she would consider given our history and the guilt she felt but she is eager to chase the next big thing. Good for her.
"Then go," I reply flatly. "Try sothing different. Do you."
She searches my face for sothing — the faintest hint of hurt, a plea to have her stay at my side — but I give her nothing. Finally, she nods.
"Take care of yourself, Ashley. All the best."
"Good luck." I return, with a ghost of a smile.
Silence stretches after she leaves. I resu choking on the ghosts of my own designs in hopes of distracting myself from my thoughts. Because of this, I don’t hear the door open. I am hunched over my sketchpad, scratching a jagged line that doesn’t belong anywhere when a shadow falls across my desk. I don’t have to look up to know it’s him. He only ever wears one signature scent.
His gaze sweeps over the chaos of my office—rumpled papers, broken pencils, a half-empty coffee cup and his sigh fill the room. Father hardens his eyes and stares down at .
"Asher wasn’t pleased about the board’s decision. I suppose you thought he could sway ."
"I thought I swayed him from bothering with you."
He steps closer, scanning my desk. Before I can stop him, he grabs my sketchpad. My chest tightens as his brows knit together with every flip through the pages, through the unfinished lines I hated and the smudges I couldn’t erase. My sha in graphite. That sha burns hot in my gut.
"This," he says finally, "is why I can’t be swayed." He drops the pad back on the desk with disgust. "This is why I can’t leave you in charge. It’s not to punish you, Ashley. Contrary to what you might think, it’s not to spite you. It’s for the company’s survival and its future. Investors want results. They want stability."
I keep my gaze fixed on him, forcing indifference onto my face.
His gaze flicks to the floor, at the sea of discarded attempts. "Creative blocks happen. But they don’t excuse... this. You are better than this, or so I thought."
"Or so you thought?" My laughter is sharp and biting. "I know I’m better but this is what happens when you rip the ground out from under . You want brilliance on demand, like a machine. Well, newsflash—I’m not one of your quarterly reports dressed in silk."
For a mont, I thought I saw sothing flicker in his eyes—remorse, maybe. But it disappears before I can na it.
"I’m hiring a new manager because you left no choice! Soone who will insist on a new creative direction. Have you seen the uproar online? Your old designs are being outshined, outranked by another na that’s not ours. That’s unacceptable. If we want to stay relevant, we must adapt and lead."
Defiance sizzles in my eyes.
"The new manager will expect you to cooperate," he adds. "I expect you to cooperate. Don’t make his job harder than it has to be. Sulk all you want but, in the end, you’ll have to adapt, Ashley. Adapt Or you’ll drown."
"Don’t worry about ." I say coolly. "I’ve had a boss all my life and tons of practice with slavish obedience."
Father studies with hooded eyes, like he’s waiting for the old Ashley — the Brett-pleaser, the obedient son. But I don’t flinch.
"Be open to being led," he says at last. "That’s all I ask."
I shrug noncommittally, the gesture empty and mocking.
He stares at a bit longer before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.
Alone, I sink to the floor, laughter tearing from my throat. It feels manic but mostly hollow and broken. I laugh until my ribs hurt and my eyes stung.
All it took was one creative block for him to discard . All it took was a stumble for him to see as expendable. Not a son. Not even an heir. Just a tool that could easily be replaced.
I laughed louder like soone finally snapping. It echoes off the walls, bouncing back at until I didn’t know if I was laughing or crying.
The papers on the floor mocks , each one a reminder of my inadequacy. I sink to the ground, clutching my knees like a child. Though my chest hurt and my throat burned, it doesn’t stop the laughter from unraveling into sobs.
Hands trembling, I reach for my phone. Dean’s number glows on the screen. My thumb hovers over it.
I want to scream out of pure disgust for myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever heal and stop yearning for more from the people who claim to love , if I will ever feel whole enough to do without the armor of their love. I wish I wasn’t so needy.
But at the last second, I cut the call to Dean. I am not going to beg anymore, not Brett or even Dean. I will no longer grovel at anyone’s feet for validation. I have to suck it up. Ashley Rollins might be slipping right now, but that is not the full story. The other version of Ashley is awakening.
Drying my eyes, I plunk down on my seat and sigh deeply. A good laugh has its benefits, and so does a good cry. Flexing my fingers, I grab my laptop and enter my log in details to a secret account.
Dean was right about one thing. It feels good to be untad and let my imaginations roam free. My feed is blowing up steadily. Everyone is still engaging with my last design. I have tons of offers in my DM.
My lips curl up in a huge grin. Feels good to know that I still got it but even better seeing my naysayers groveling for my attention, including so Rollins HQ personnel. Laughing, I proceed to upload the design idea I got while at the hospital with Ashal, sothing that would never have flown with the board mbers of my company.
I can’t wait to see the look on everyone’s faces when they realize the truth.
As the engagent starts trickling in, I logout, as Noxx.
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