Twenty-One
IONLY LET MYSELF STARE AT IT FOR A SECOND.
Quickly, I shift my gaze to Jackson. When he notices me, his eyes lighting up with pleased surprise I can’t stand, I crook my finger, urging him to meet me in the hall. He looks relieved for the excuse to leave the room, scrunching up his nose in repulsion while he walks through the smoke. None of the groomsmen watch him go.
“Olivia. Hi,” he says, his staccato rhythm wrenchingly familiar. “What’s up?” With his hip against the wall, he leans forward, everything in his demeanor eager to see me. Emboldened, I guess, by my promise of one dance. I feel I was pretty clear we were not on good footing with each other when we left my dad’s closet.
Yet here Jackson is, looking like he did when he was pitching me on wearing matching sneakers to prom instead of dress shoes. His efforts, for the record, were unsuccessful.
I ignore it. I’ll permit no patience for his flirtations, which is what’s happening right now. For Jackson, leaning itself is flirtatious.
Obviously, I would prefer if he weren’t anywhere near me today. However, having a man on the inside of the wedding party does have its advantages.
“What’s causing the delay?” I demand. The harshness in my voice warns him I’m here only for wedding-related reasons.
If it registers with Jackson, my unflappable ex doesn’t show it. “Maureen doesn’t like her hair. They’re redoing it for the third time. Dash and the groomsmen find this hilarious,” he explains dryly.
I nod, my stress subsiding. Hair crisis. Okay. No need for arson. It comes as absolutely no surprise she’s being a diva about her hair, what with her propensity for shifting personalities and her fundamental passion for ordering people around. Of course, nor is it surprising the men in the room past us have jumped on the opportunity to make fun of a twenty-five-year-old bride.
I spin on my heel, heading for the bridal suite to help move things along.
Jackson grabs my arm, stopping me. “That’s it?” he asks. “Please don’t send me back in there.”
“Do whatever you want. I’m going to help Maureen.”
He’s still holding my arm, his eyes searching mine too intently. I want to look away, but I don’t want to appear weak, not to him.
Finally, he lets me go. “Why?”
I shrug off his suspicion. “Why not?”
“You get me to be a groomsman just because Dash asked you. Now you’re helping Maureen get ready just to keep the wedding from being delayed. Why do you care?” He places his words methodically, each following the previous as if he’s putting together evidence.
I instantly realize I’ve walked—in heels, no less—onto very thin ice. Everything in my body screams out to panic, to flee in the opposite direction. But I can’t. Not really. Running won’t change what he knows. What he suspects. Running won’t escape the danger I’m in.
One unfortunate reality I learned living in this labyrinthine house is how little it matters which pretty, perfect room you hide in. Problems will find you if they want to.
Jackson’s eyes widen, his face reflecting the fear rising in me. “No,” he says, realizing. “You’re not.”
I hold my chin up with defiant effort. “Not what, Jackson?” I retort, clenching my voice in iron.
He looks around furtively, then pulls me farther down the hall. While I resent every moment of contact, I’m prepared for it now. I feel nothing with his familiar fingers on my skin. Nothing except my wire-coiled nerves.
“You’re not planning something at this wedding, right?” he hisses. “Revenge? Theft?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say instantly. Extracting my elbow, I start walking again, pretending everything is fine.
Jackson catches up to me and places himself deftly in my way. “Tell me why you’re helping Maureen,” he demands, urgent now. “Why do you care about this wedding at all?”
“You’ve been out of my life for weeks. My dad and I have reconciled. I’m excited for Maureen to be my stepmom. We’ve grown very close.” I can hardly get the words out. They’re like regurgitating glass. I know they’re not convincing.
“Olivia.” Jackson pronounces my name in warning.
One I won’t heed. I do nothing. Posture ramrod straight, imperious.
Jackson is undeterred. “Is this why you broke up with me?” he asks. “I told you not to do something like… this, and you—what? Wanted to cut me loose so I didn’t stop you?”
I glare, my expression steely. He doesn’t flinch.
While my gaze is full of spite, deep down, it’s myself I’m furious with.
Of course I suggested The Plan to Jackson. Only in its earlier stages, when it was little more than the notion of stealing from my father. I got the idea as soon as I received the Save the Date, when Jackson and I were still dating. When I was still deeply in love with someone I thought loved me back.
The conversation has haunted me in every wayward glimpse of Jackson I’ve gotten in the cafeteria over the past weeks. The day I received The Plan’s inspiration, several months into our relationship, was like every other. Getting home to my empty house, I went to check the mail. Jackson came over like usual, his used Jeep in my driveway, expecting we would do homework until other pursuits called us.
Instead, he found me rereading the Save the Date, fuming with intent. He figured I needed comfort, remembering the Olivia he had seen in drives home from godawful dinners here, in furious outbursts fresh off some wounding phone call with Dash.
I didn’t need comfort. This was different. He mistook the dark fire of inspiration for hurt.
In my conjoined kitchen–living room, in the sunlight filtering past our cheap curtains, I explained myself calmly. I wanted to steal something back from my dad—what I deserved. My father had just given the perfect opportunity, in curly cursive with gold roses stamped into the edges. With the wedding invitation, he’d invited something else entirely.
In those first seconds, I was already fantasizing about Jackson and me pulling this job together. Us against the world.
Standing in the middle of the room, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, he listened with doubt warping his features. The idea unnerved him, I realized with the fast horror of miscalculation. I’d never heard Jackson criticize me until then. We nearly never fought. Which meant I didn’t recognize the disapproving stare he fixed on me.
He told me I shouldn’t get wrapped up in revenge. I should live my life and forget about my dickhead father.
I was better than this, he insisted.
He was wrong.
“I broke up with you because you cheated on me,” I remind him, my voice venomous.
“Except we both know I didn’t,” he replies. He speaks every word slowly, charged with indignation.
I’ve had enough. Without hesitating, I walk past him into the chandeliered foyer. While I hear him following me, I couldn’t care less. Honestly, I get madder with every passing instant. How dare he look for other reasons I dumped him?
I find refuge in my fury, my only reward for the end of our relationship. I continue out the front door, out to the ridiculous circular driveway, knowing Jackson is on my heels. The daylight is dazzling enough to hurt. In front of the hedge spires flanking the portico, the valet staff has parked the fanciest cars, their hoods shining.
Jackson’s betrayal had proven convenient, in its own way. I didn’t know how I would explain to him I needed to go through with my plans. It wasn’t me not letting go of the idea. The idea wouldn’t let go of me. The DM I received freed me from having to justify myself to Jackson.
And if I’m really honest with myself, it was almost a relief.
If he had discovered the depth of bitterness, jealousy, and ruthlessness in me, he would have abandoned me for good. In my guiltiest moments, I’m convinced it’s why he cheated.
Maybe I even deserved it.
Heartbreak and the guilt for my mom’s injuries and my parents’ divorce have left me without much faith in my own goodness. The heist is my chance to use everything Jackson couldn’t love in me—my vengefulness, my uncompromising retaliation—for something like redemption.
If I can be the one in charge, I won’t only be… everything else. The daughter who needs providing for, even when it endangers her mother’s life. The jilted girlfriend. The one who ruined everything, according to my father. Olivia the ruiner.
If I’m successful, I won’t just earn millions. I’ll prove I’m someone worth respecting.
I head down the idyllic stone pathway leading from the driveway through the grass to the guest cottage. Yes, the grounds have a freaking guest cottage. While it’s designed like the main house, with stately white-framed windows set under the gently sloping roof in Georgian gorgeousness, the purposeful unobtrusiveness of the structure changes the feel of the place entirely. It emerges from the greenery like a secret among friends.
I ignore the heartstring pull of just seeing it. “Look,” Jackson says behind me. “How can I prove it to you? You said I hooked up with some girl?”
“Kelly Devine,” I correct him. “I don’t know the particulars of what you did together. I just saw the DM.”
“DM,” Jackson repeats, inexplicably relieved. “Perfect. Can you show me the screenshots?”
“Sorry, can’t,” I say with mock remorse. “No phones at the wedding.”
I hear my ex’s forced patience in his next words. “Right. I mean when the wedding is over. You can even go through my phone. Read every message I’ve ever sent. I honestly don’t care. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t need to spend hours looking for a message you’ve had weeks to delete.”
Unfortunately, fate won’t let me have my perfect comeback. The moment the reply has left my lips, I stumble on a rock in the path. I pitch forward, hands flying up—when Jackson catches me, his grip gentle on my waist. The hot shock of him holding my hips is merciless, supplying me with memories like notes shoved under locked doors.
His hands linger a little long. He drops them when I straighten up, impatient with him, impatient with myself.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he says with shattered hollowness. “What I do understand, though, is you’re done with me. Fine. But, Olivia, please don’t do what you’re doing.”
I’m not certain what exactly makes me face him in the middle of the garden path. Or… I wish I weren’t. The fact is, the fervent concern in Jackson’s voice unlocks a few of the doors in my heart I would rather remain closed. I find desperation written everywhere on his features, filling his eyes.
It makes me do what I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t. I hesitate.
He continues. “Your dad isn’t just an asshole. He’s powerful. Even dangerous. Same with the rest of the men in his circle. If any of them finds out what you’re up to,” he says urgently, “they’ll crush you. They’ll ruin your future—they don’t think you have one in the first place. But I know you do.”
I know you do. I know you do.
I hate how his validation works into me. It’s like every interaction I’ve unfortunately had with him the past couple hours. Painful reminders of pleasure gone.
“You can’t risk it for whatever revenge you’re chasing,” he finishes. “You’re more than what he wants you to be.”
His words hurt worse than falling on the rocks would have.
There was a time I wanted to be the girl Jackson thought I was. Good. Noble. Above the shitty hand I was dealt. There was even a moment I thought about calling off the heist, held comfortingly in Jackson’s arms. The poison my dad dropped into my heart, the conviction that I’d ruined everything and would ruin everything for my mom, went quiet, and with it the hunger for revenge, my sweet antidote. With Jackson, I glimpsed a future perfect enough that I could maybe escape the unforgiving pieces of my past. I just remember feeling terrifyingly happy.
I’m glad I didn’t give up the heist. Happiness is like anything—it can be stolen.
I step away from him slowly, careful with the path. “You’re right,” I say, dropping heavy gates over my demeanor. “I am done with you. I didn’t need Kelly Devine to know I was never the girl you wanted.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I walk into the cottage and close the door on him.