CHAPTER 13: THE NEW MRS. ASHFORD

I read the message once.

*Don't be fooled by the soup. Ask your husband why he really chose you.*

I looked at it for maybe three seconds. Then I rolled my eyes, deleted it, and blocked the number.

Please. It was probably Sabrina. Or some bored stranger from the comments. I had a whole day of being pulled apart by people who wanted me to feel small. I was not going to give one more of them my sleep.

I turned off the lamp and slept better than I had in a week.

The next morning, I woke up angry at my own closet.

I stood in front of it in my socks, looking at the two cheap sweaters and one plain cotton dress I had bought at the mall. Everything was gray or beige. Everything looked like it belonged to someone who was trying not to be seen.

Yesterday, a whole lobby full of people looked at me and saw a girl holding a cardboard box.

I was done with that.

"Mrs. Bell?" I found her in the kitchen, polishing a silver spoon. "I need your help."

She looked up and smiled like she had been waiting for me to ask. "Of course, madam."

"I need new clothes. Real ones. And I don't know where to start."

"Oh, that is easy." She put down the spoon. "Mr. Ashford left instructions this morning. He said you would need a stylist, and that I should call whoever you wanted."

I blinked. "He did?"

"Before he left. He said, and I quote, 'My wife should look like she belongs in this house.'"

My cheeks went warm. I told myself it was only about appearance, like he said. A business thing. The Ashford name. That was all.

"Let's call her," I said.

Her name was Ivy. She arrived at ten with three assistants, two rolling racks of clothes, and a face like a very polite tornado.

"Oh, you have *lovely* bones," she said, circling me with her head tilted. "Wonderful skin. Great shoulders. And what are we doing with this hair? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We are fixing that."

"I don't really know what suits me."

"That's fine. I do." She snapped her fingers. "Dress, please!"

For three hours, I tried on everything. Silk blouses. Soft wool coats. Skirts that actually fit. A white dress that made me feel like I should be on a yacht. I kept waiting to hate it, to feel silly and fake. But somewhere around the fifth outfit, something strange happened.

I started to like the girl in the mirror.

Not because of the clothes. It was the way she stood. Shoulders back. Chin up. Like she had a right to be there.

In the end, I chose a cream silk blouse, slim navy trousers, and low black heels. Ivy pinned my hair back in soft waves and put a little color on my lips. Small pearl earrings. A thin gold watch.

"There," she said, stepping back with a sigh. "*That* is an Ashford."

I looked at myself for a long time.

I did not look like a gold digger. I did not look like a boring girl in a borrowed dress. I looked like me. Just the best version. The one who had been hiding all this time because she was too scared to be seen.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Darling, don't thank me. Thank your husband. His card is very generous." Ivy winked. "Call me when you need evening wear. You'll need a lot."

I was still smiling when Mrs. Bell knocked on the door at eleven thirty.

"Madam," she said, and her face had changed. "Your mother is here."

My smile dropped.

"I told her you were busy. She said she'll wait in the hall as long as it takes."

Of course she did.

I took a breath. I smoothed my blouse. Then I walked down the stairs slowly, one step at a time, with my head high.

My mother was standing in the middle of the big marble entrance hall, holding her purse with both hands. She was wearing her good brown coat, the one with the missing button. Her hair was a little flat. When she heard my heels on the stairs, she turned around.

And she stopped.

Her mouth fell open. Her eyes went from my hair to my blouse to my shoes and back, wide, like she was looking at a stranger.

"Lila?" she said. "Is that you?"

"Hello, Mom."

"You look..." She took a step closer, shaking her head. "My goodness. You look so..."

"Rich?" I said.

She flinched. Then, quick as a light switch, her whole face changed. The surprise melted away, and a big, warm, loving smile took its place.

"My darling girl!" She hurried forward, arms wide. "Oh, I missed you so much. I was so worried. Come here, let me see you."

She hugged me. I stood there stiff as a post, with her cheap perfume in my nose, and I felt nothing. It surprised me. A week ago, I would have cried. I would have melted. I would have said *I missed you too.*

Now I just waited for her to finish.

"Mom, why are you here?"

"Can't a mother visit her daughter?" She pulled back and looked around the hall, at the chandelier, the staircase, the huge vase of white lilies. "Oh my. It's even bigger than I thought."

"Mom."

"Yes, yes. Okay." She smoothed her coat. Her voice dropped to a soft, careful tone. "Lila, you know your father's company has been having a hard time."

I said nothing.

"And after what happened at the party, well, Mr. Ashford's family has been very cold. Nobody is returning our calls. The bank has been asking questions." She sighed. "We need a loan, sweetheart. Only a small one. Two million."

Two million dollars.

She said it like it was two dollars.

"You want me to ask Damien for two million."

"Not *ask.* You're his wife now. It's just a family matter. He'll understand." She patted my arm. "A husband takes care of his wife's family. That's how it works."

"On paper."

"What?"

"Nothing." I looked at her face. The hope in her eyes. The way she was already counting the money in her head. "Mom. Did you come to see if I was okay?"

"Of course I did."

"Did you ask me how I am? Even once?"

She blinked. "What? Well, you look fine."

"I got fired yesterday. Did you know that?"

"Well, I heard something..."

"Everyone on the internet called me a gold digger. Did you read that?"

"Lila, don't be dramatic."

There it was again. *Don't be dramatic.* The same words. The same tired voice she used my whole life, every time I tried to tell her something hurt.

Something in my chest went very quiet.

"Mom," I said. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"When I was nine, I won first prize at school. In art. You didn't come to the ceremony because Dad's boss was visiting. Do you remember?"

She frowned. "That was a long time ago."

"When I was fifteen, I cried every night for a month because the girls at school were mean to me. You told me to smile and be polite. When I was twenty, I told you Ryan forgot my birthday. You said I should be more understanding." My voice shook, but I kept going. "Three days ago, at the Ashford house, you asked me to say sorry to the woman who called me a gold digger. In front of fifteen people. You called Sabrina your daughter."

"Lila..."

"I was *right there,* Mom. I was sitting right next to you."

"That is enough."

"No, it's not." The tears stung my eyes, but I did not wipe them. "I've been your good girl my whole life. I did everything you wanted. I gave up everything. And you never once asked if I was happy. Not once. You called me yesterday forty-seven times, and every single message said *where are you* and *fix this.* Not one said *are you safe.*"

"I was upset!"

"I'm your daughter."

The words came out cracked. They hung there in the big empty hall.

For a moment, my mother just stood there. Her face was pale. Her mouth worked silently. I thought, just for one second, that I saw something real in her eyes. Shame, maybe. Or sadness.

Then it hardened.

"After everything I did for you," she said, in a low, shaking voice. "After I raised you, fed you, put you in good schools. And this is how you speak to me? Because some rich man put a ring on your finger?"

"Mom, I'm not..."

"You ungrateful girl."

Her hand came up so fast I did not see it.

The slap rang through the hall like a gunshot.

My head turned to the side. My cheek burned. The world went silent and white, and for a moment I couldn't feel anything but the heat on my face and the taste of tears in my mouth.

Then I heard footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. On the marble behind us.

My mother's face went from red to white in half a second.

I turned my head.

Damien stood in the doorway of the hall, still in his coat, his keys in one hand. He must have just come home. His eyes went to my cheek. Then to my mother's raised hand, still hanging in the air.

He did not say a word.

And I had never seen anyone look so calm and so dangerous at the same time.