Chapter 39
39
Olivia
Mine, mine, mine.
It shouldn’t affect me when he says that word, but I would be lying to myself if I said it doesn’t. He’s so confident about it. He has been from the moment I met him. If only I could allow myself to feel the same way. Because there’s no doubt, I’m attracted to him. The sex with him is explosive, and when I’m with him, I definitely feel protected… And all of it is a reminder of why I cannot allow myself to be dependent on him. If I open myself up to him, I’ll lose myself, and then, how will I be able to focus on making something of myself?
I glance out of the window at the raindrops that patter against the pane. We moved into a townhouse on Primrose Hill. Why am I not surprised he has a place in Primrose Hill? I wanted to refuse to stay with him because it didn’t feel right. He’s rich enough to afford prime real estate in this city, and I’m just a struggling actress. Don’t I completely fit the role of eye-candy on the arm of a rich prick?
I press my fingers against the glass, allowing the coolness to filter through them. Am I in danger of becoming a cliché? I press my forehead against the pane and peer through the rain-soaked sheet of glass. We’ve been here forty-eight hours, during which time I have, thankfully, seen little of my husband.
We landed in London a few hours after that conversation. A town car was waiting for us, and we were ushered to this house. I walked into the living room, and something about the wood flooring, the wide French windows that let the light pour in, the fireplace, the carpet, the deep leather settee, had made me relax my shoulders. Then, I walked into the adjoining room, discovered the library with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases stacked with books, and I literally salivated.
There’s a fireplace there, as well as a big comfortable armchair with a throw over it. I wanted to grab a few books, throw myself down in it, and not move. I lingered there, running my fingers over the spines of the books, trying not to give away how excited I was. When I tore myself away, he showed me the kitchen—a big, square space with doors that open into the back garden. The room itself is airy, with an island in the center and stools scattered around it. A double refrigerator, a gleaming oven, and utensils that hang off hooks on one side give it a homey feel. Best of all, it doesn’t join the living room, which means it’s completely separate, so you can cook and bake without having to worry about the food smell invading the rest of the house. I went to the door, glanced out at the deck, and he invited me to walk out. I walked to the railing and took in the wide sweep of the slope of the hill beyond the garden. To the side was an infinity pool, which seemed to join with the horizon.
"Wow," I breathed. "This is gorgeous."
"It is, isn’t it?"
I glanced sideways to see him staring at me, and oh, my god, I felt his look all the way to the tips of my toes. I stood there, caught in the intensity of the moment, unable to take my gaze off of him, unable to blink, unable to breathe. It felt like there was a cord stretched between us, something that linked us—something overflowing with unsaid words, and pulsating emotions, and hopes, and dreams, and yearning. So much yearning. Something so tangible, I could reach out, touch it, and taste it if I wanted to.
I took a step forward, and so did he. His gaze narrowed, and his shoulders seemed to grow larger. His dominance thrummed in the space between us. His presence seemed to absorb all of the oxygen in the vicinity. The force of his personality slammed into my chest, making it difficult to breathe. The pores on my skin popped, heat flushed my chest, and every cell in my body seemed to be open, and throbbing, and needing him. Only him. And I hadn’t even touched him.
I remembered enough of how that night between us had been. He had consumed me. I’d come so close to opening myself up completely to him, to giving him everything. I’d have been left with nothing.
He took another step in my direction, and I turned and ran inside, away from him. I ran up the stairs, avoiding the double doors at the end of the corridor that, clearly, led to the main bedroom. I chose one of the other rooms, a guest room, and slammed the door behind me. I crawled into bed, curled into myself, and fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I found my bags placed next to the door leading into the walk-in closet. Did he set them here? Did he watch me sleep? I also found a key fob on my nightstand, with a note from him indicating they were for my car, which was parked in the garage.
At least he doesn’t mean for me to be a prisoner in this house, so... That’s something, I suppose.
I showered and went downstairs to find his housekeeper in the kitchen, cooking. She informed me she comes in daily, whenever someone is in the house, to take care of chores and cook for us. She also told me he’d eaten breakfast and left for the day.
I haven’t seen him since.
Now, I turn back to the makeshift office I set up on the table pushed up against the window. I’ve been on the phone with Declan’s agent, who seems positive he can get me into auditions in both London and in LA. I’ve spent the last day revamping my website and putting out feelers for the voice-over work I’d already begun doing, which actually pays quite well. Only, it isn’t what inspires me. I don’t want to hide behind my voice. I want to show my face on screen, on stage, to people. Massimo’s wrong. I don’t need therapy. I’ve faced my fears by putting myself forward for roles. Haven’t I? Nope, I’m fine.
An incoming call on my phone vibrates. I swipe the screen, and Penny’s face appears.
"Hey, hey, hey, look at you; already glowing with happiness. How’s the honeymoon going?" she chirps.
"No honeymoon. I came here to work, remember?" I sink into my seat and place the phone in its stand next to my computer.
"How boring. You only get married once… Or at least, for the first time once. Shouldn’t you be making the most of this time and bouncing on his dick and other parts of him, as well?"
I yawn. "Already done that. Next?"
She blinks, then bursts out laughing. "You cow. You didn’t. So, you slept with him before you got married, didn’t you?"
I hesitate. No harm admitting it now, is there? “And if I did?"
"And he was so enraptured by your pussy, he had to have you, to the extent that he abandoned his fiancée to-be, made you abandon your fiancé in-name-only, then killed your brother, who’d have married you off elsewhere, and married you."
When she puts it like that… It does sound excessive. I tip up my chin. "What are you trying to say?"
She sobers. "I know you’re pissed off at what happened to your face, but you can’t let it hold you back.
"It’s not holding me back. Do I look like it’s holding me back?" I gesture to myself. I’m dressed in slacks and a sweater, my hair tied up in a ponytail. Also, I’ve worn enough makeup to minimize the scar without looking like I want to hide it. I definitely don’t resemble someone with PTSD from having been shot at. Or like someone who cuts herself. My fingers tremble and I press them into the desk. "Well?" I scowl at her. "How do I look?"
"You look great," she says sincerely. "You always look great, Olivia, but you know I’m not talking about that. Sometimes, the people who look the most put together on the outside are the ones falling apart on the inside."
I stiffen. A ball of discomfort tightens my guts. "I’m not falling apart inside."
"I didn’t say you were. All I meant was, if you need help?—"
"I don’t need help. Why does everyone around me think I need help? This is me, more focused than I’ve been in my entire life."
"Maybe too focused."
I begin to protest, but she holds up her palm to cut me off.
"I know you’ll deny it, and that’s fine. You can hide from yourself, but not from your friends."
"Or from my husband, apparently," I grumble.
"What was that?"
"All I’m saying is, I’m tired of the lot of you trying to tell me how to live my life, you know?"
"It’s only because we care about you. What you went through is nothing to joke about. It’s only been a few weeks after the incident, and already you’re back on your feet and super-focused on your career."
"Ergo, I’m ready to put it behind me and go after the one thing I’ve always wanted."
"Things change. Our hopes and aspirations broaden as we get older," she murmurs.
"Not mine. I’m going to become a well-known actress. I want the fame, and the recognition that goes with it. I’m good at what I do, and I want the world to know it."
"And they will. It may not be on the timetable you want it on, but I’m sure you’ll get everything you deserve."
I blink. "That’s a very nice thing to say."
"I truly believe it." She smiles widely.
"I wish I were more like you, Penny."
"What do you mean?" She frowns.
"You’re always so optimistic about the future. So cheery, sometimes disgustingly so. And you don’t take anything too seriously."
"Not even my career, you mean?" she remarks in a self-deprecating tone.
I raise my hands, palms face up. "You’re definitely easygoing about it, and I like that. I feel relaxed around you because of it. Jeanne and I, we’re the more competitive ones. I wish I could be more like you, but something in me always pushes me forward. It forces me to achieve, to keep moving forward, know what I mean?"
"It’s what I admire you for—your single-minded focus. I wish I had more of that," she says in a soft voice.
"Yeah, well, I’m going to need all of it to find new roles." I rotate my neck, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. "Much as people like to say they don’t discriminate on the basis of looks, you know we do. I mean, bias is inherent in how we survey people who look out of the ordinary, like having a scar on their face, for example. And that’s even more true in the world of acting."
"If anyone can break through those barriers, it’s you."
"I agree, and I have every confidence that you can do it, too." Hands wrap around my shoulders and begin to massage. A shudder runs down my back. I glance at the screen of my phone and spot Massimo’s reflection staring back at me.
"I gotta go, Penny!" I wave at my friend.
"But—"
I cut her off, then stare up at my husband.
"What are you doing here?” I demand.