Page 85 of The Illusion
His response comes back almost immediately:
Sure am. Come on over.
Ryan's house is twenty minutes away in Queen Anne, tucked on a tree-lined street with views of the sound. It's a Craftsman that's been meticulously restored. Original woodwork, leaded glass windows, a wide front porch with built-in benches. The hydrangeas along the walkway are overgrown in that intentional way that says someone's paying a gardener to make it look effortless. This is the kind of house that costs millions but doesn't announce it.
Ryan is the least obvious rich person I’ve ever met. The same goes for his parents. They’re down to earth and considerate,absolutely nothing like Asher or his father. They may be billionaires, but it's completely different from the Stevens family. If Asher hadn’t told me Ryan’s family business was as big as it is, I never would have guessed. I park in the driveway and walk up to the front door. Before I can knock, Ryan opens it.
"Hey," he says. He's wearing jeans and a faded Seahawks t-shirt, barefoot. His hair is a little messy, like he's been running his hands through it and he smells divine. "You okay?"
"Far from it," I admit.
He watches me carefully as he steps aside to let me in. The house smells like coffee and something faintly woodsy. The interior is beautiful—restored hardwood floors, crown molding, a stone fireplace—but it's lived in. Comfortable. It isn’t a showpiece or a palace. It’s a home. I've only been here a few times but I'm always struck by how lovely it is.
"Want to talk over coffee?" Ryan asks, already heading toward the kitchen.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I follow him into the kitchen. It's been beautifully updated but kept the original character—white shaker cabinets, marble countertops, a farmhouse sink. There's a French press on the counter, still half full. Ryan pours me a mug and hands it to me, then leans against the counter.
"So," he says. "What’s going on?”
I take a sip of the coffee. It's strong and slightly bitter, exactly what I need. I swallow hard and then dive in. “Asher lied to me to get me to take Devon to her therapist this afternoon. Said he couldn’t do it himself because he had a meeting. But when I got there, he was waiting in the office. He set me up and had the doctor ambush me."
Ryan's eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"He hid his fucking car, Ryan. So I wouldn’t know he was there until it was too late. The therapist called it a familysession." I set the mug down on the counter so I can make air quotes around that last part.
"Then the doctor spent the entire hour making me feel like I'm the problem. Like I'm the one who needs to adjust and be more understanding and develop coping strategies."
“What the fuck? That's bullshit," Ryan says immediately.
"Not according to Dr. Evil. In that office, Devon is the traumatized orphan who needs stability, and I'm the selfish wife with ‘abandonment issues’ who can't handle having her in the house."
My voice is rising, but I can't stop it. "Dr. Reeves kept asking how I've been adjusting. Like it's my job to make everything easy for Devon. Like my feelings don't matter at all."
Ryan’s head jerks back. He’s quiet for a moment, watching me. “So a random doctor just thought he’d diagnose you with issues without ever having spoken to you before?”
"The doctor was a woman. And yes, she did. She was awful.”
Something flickers across Ryan's face. It's fast, just a split second, but I catch it. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrow slightly, and then the expression is gone. Smoothed over like it was never there.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I’m fucking pissed you had to deal with that.”
I laugh, and it sounds dark. “Me too. She was aggressive and really went for me. It was totally fucked.”
Ryan starts pacing. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Asher sat there? He just let a therapist tell his wife she's the problem?" He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it. "Jesus Christ, Julie."
"Yep. And when she suggested I do multiple sessions per week to really address my “abandonment issues", he nodded along."
He stops mid-stride, his whole body going rigid. When he turns back to me, there's something dangerous in his expression. "That motherfucker. You deserved none of that. None of it." His voice drops lower, harder. "Youare not the goddamn problem."
He starts pacing again, and I can see him fighting something—his jaw working, his fists opening and closing. He looks like he's about to say something else, something bigger, but then he catches himself. His mouth closes. He takes a breath.
"He should be—" Ryan stops. Shakes his head. Doesn't finish.
I sniffle and shrug my shoulders. "It's a mess."
