ASHAL
Ashley doesn't look the least bit shaken.
If anything, he's too composed, and that unsettles me more than watching him lose himself to emotional strains ever did. His laptop is open on the desk in this tiny, stripped-down office he shoved himself into after the demotion. Papers are scattered everywhere, sketches of designs with bold lines and messy notes in the margins. He hasn't stopped yammering about this new collection idea since we left the hospital.
I lean against the desk, arms crossed, and watch him scratch at the paper with a pencil like he's trying to carve his thoughts into it.
"How's the design coming along?" I ask, testing him.
He doesn't look up. "How was your conversation with Mother? Did she have a grand justification for lying through her teeth all this time?"
