Page 92 of The Ex Factor

Ashley slid a hand down to the small of Molly’s back, pressing her down onto the white duvet. The air between them suddenly felt hot and thick, all the lingering tension melting. Molly pulled back just a fraction, her jade eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed, resting her forehead against Ashley’s.

‘Are we really doing this?’ Molly whispered, her hand sliding up under the hem of Ashley’s T-shirt, skin warm against skin.

Ashley’s pulse was hammering in her ears. She kissed the corner of Molly’s mouth, then down the line of her neck, feeling Molly shiver beneath her. ‘God, I want to,’ Ashley murmured into her skin.

With a heavy groan, Ashley forced herself to stop.

‘Ashley?’ Molly asked, her breath still coming fast.

‘We can’t,’ Ashley muttered, her voice muffled against Molly’s shirt.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Ashley pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at Molly with a desperate, self-inflicted sort of agony. ‘We can’t. Not yet.’

Molly blinked up at her, incredulous. ‘Ashley, I am literally lying on a seven-hundred-quid bed with my hand up your shirt.’

‘And if we do this, you’re going to fall asleep in an hour, wake up in a panic at 7:00 a.m., and blow your audition,’ Ashley said firmly, though her own hand was still resting on Molly’s hip. ‘You’ve got six pages of dialogue for tomorrow morning, and you said yourself you’re not ready.’

Molly stared at her, her mouth dropping open slightly. ‘Are you seriously box-blocking us for an acting audition?’

‘I’m making sure you get this job,’ Ashley said, sitting up completely, though her cheeks were burning red. ‘Now get up. I’m running lines with you until you feel ready.’

Molly let out a disbelief-filled laugh. ‘You are unbelievable.’

‘I’m a supportive partner,’ Ashley corrected, a mischievous grin breaking across her face as she leaned in to steal one last quick, hard kiss. ‘Now grab your pages, actor. Let’s hear it.’

Thirty-Eight

A Few Years Later

The BA flight from Berlin was forty minutes late landing at Heathrow, which meant Ashley had exactly one hour to get into her fancy duds, fix her hair in the back of an Uber, and make it to the Grosvenor House Hotel. Her PA, a sensible woman named Sarah, was currently in the front seat aggressively typing on a laptop, verifying the soundcheck times for the Madrid arena the following night on her Fuck Your Expectations tour. Privately, the band called it the ‘Fuck You, Simon’ tour.

Leaving Simon and the giant label had been a bloodbath. When Ashley announced she was walking, they’d thrown their legal team at her and threatened to sue her for millions—until Ashley calmly pointed out that she had text proof that her manager (with the label's complicity) had forced her into staged PR relationships to boost sales. Faced with a public relations nightmare, the label backed off and cut her loose.

Though she’d originally intended to go completely independent, Ashley had ended up signing with a tiny boutique label run by two music-obsessed nerds who let her make whatever she wanted and were just thrilled to have her on their roster.

She made a fraction of her old money, but she owned her masters, she was genuinely happy, and her original band was still behind her—now officially billed on venue marquees as Ashley Malone and the Echoes. They were not pop. They were soft indie. Most songs were written by Ashley, with some a collaborative effort by the band, who had now lost interest in each other and focused only on the music.

Without Simon’s radio-bait formulas, her audience had altered. The teens mostly vanished, replaced by a slightly older, more discerning crowd, while the diehards—now older—stayed fiercely loyal. Her gigs were strictly eighteen and over now.

The love of performing finally came back to Ashley. The stage stopped being a duty, especially on the nights Molly joined her on the road. Watching Molly stand in the wings made the music feel like music again instead of an obligation.

‘Madrid is looking good, just a few i’s to dot.’

‘Huh? Oh, cool. Thanks, Sarah,’ Ashley said absent-mindedly.

She was staring at her phone, at a photo Molly had texted her two hours ago of a massive, elaborate chocolate fountain in the pre-awards reception room.

I’m about to embarrass myself with this bad girl, the caption read. Ashley smiled.

Freshly Laundered had wrapped its third season in November, and tonight Molly was up for Best Actress in a Comedy-Drama Series. Ashley was determined to be there to see her collect it.

It wasn’t a fairy-tale setup; it was a constant, deliberate effort. Ashley’s tour schedule was nowhere near as gruelling as it used to be, but their careers still meant navigating time zones, red-eyes, and long stretches away from each other. Sometimes their work meant being parted for months at a time. But distance didn’t trigger the old panic anymore. If someone was wobbling, they talked it out. Sometimes they cried it out. Sometimes they yelled it out. Sometimes they banged it out. But in the end, both said, ‘I love you,’ and both knew they meant it.

And in between the global bouncing, they lived together in Molly's terrace in North London now. Molly loved every squeaky floorboard and overgrown garden plot of the place, and Ashley—who had never cared enough about her own hollow, minimalist apartment—had been more than happy to pack up her guitars, move in, and let Molly’s home swallow them both whole.

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