Chapter 11
Olivia
I wake up to fur in my face and the familiar weight of Duchess sprawled across my chest. I groan, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains. Duchess stretches, her claws digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
“Morning, Your Highness,” I mutter, gently pushing her off me. She gives me an indignant look before hopping off the bed with a flick of her tail.
The alarm on my phone buzzes, and I fumble to silence it.
I lie there for a moment, refusing to move, mind treading water in the gray space between waking and dreaming.
Slowly, I glance around the room, taking in the soft glow of morning light on the cream-colored walls, the clutter of art books stacked haphazardly on my dresser.
Duchess sits primly by the door, tail twitching, eyes fixed on me. Waiting for breakfast.
“All right, all right.” I swing my legs out of bed.
The hardwood floor is cold, and I shuffle toward the kitchen, Duchess trailing behind me like a shadow.
The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city waking up outside.
I open a can and spoon wet food into her bowl.
She dives in with unusual enthusiasm. While I was away, she only had her dry kibble, and I know she’s been eagerly awaiting my return.
I lean against the counter, sipping from a glass of water as I mentally run through my to-do list. Finish writing the exhibition catalog. Start the marketing plan. Find husband. Survive.
With a sigh, I get ready for the day. I run a brush through my tangled hair, wincing as it catches on a knot. The face staring back at me in the mirror looks tired, with dark circles under my eyes. I should put on makeup, but I can’t muster the effort.
I regret that choice the second I walk into Millhouse Gallery. Cassandra is at the front desk, all bright eyes and a smile that says she’s been waiting for me.
“Good morning.” I put on a smile as I approach the desk.
“Morning.” She looks like she’s been up for hours, coffee in hand, ready to discuss plans for tonight’s event. Meanwhile, I look like a death warmed over after my sleepless night. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Sorry for leaving early on Friday. Didn’t want to spread my germs.”
“I’m glad you’re better.” Cassandra’s smile is genuine.
She leans forward over the desk, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Dinner went well—the Carmichaels pledged another twenty thousand for the new wing. Senator Wilson’s wife cornered me for half an hour about her daughter’s ‘promising’ photography career.
” She makes air quotes. “Did you enjoy yourself before the early exit? I saw you slip away just after the first course.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I did, actually.”
She studies me, eyes sharp. “And how about potential husband candidates?”
I reach for the catalog on the desk, desperate to change the subject. I can’t admit to her that her entire list of options, all the spreadsheets and color-coded notes she’d set up for every eligible bachelor at the event, and instead spent the weekend with Alex. “No progress there.”
“Did anyone catch your eye?” She’s relentless, nails tapping the marble counter.
I wish I could tell her about him and our incredible weekend together, but I know that she wouldn’t let it go, and I want to forget him.
“There were a couple of interesting men, but no one stood out,” I say, flipping through the catalog.
“No one, huh.” She narrows her eyes. “Spill it. What happened last night? I saw you talking with the enemy, and then you vanished from the dinner, and now you show up looking like this?”
I tilt my head. Enemy?
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean.” Her glare is pointed. “You’re glowing. You look like you just had the best sex of your life and then got hit by a truck. Don’t try to play coy.”
I cave. “Okay, fine. I met someone on Friday. His name is Alex. We spent the entire weekend together.”
Cassandra’s eyebrows shoot up. “So you did something rash. Good for you. I never thought you’d be the one to have a scandalous tryst at a fancy event. Tell me everything. Or at least tell me: do I need to add him to your list?”
“There’s nothing to add,” I say, voice thin. “He’s not available. It was just a one-time thing.” I want her to drop the subject, but that’s never been Cassandra’s strength.
“Un-available unavailable, or ‘I hate labels’ unavailable?”
I close the catalog. “Engaged.”
Cassandra lets out a groan so loud it echoes off the gallery’s marble floors. “Was it worth it at least?”
I let myself smile, faintly. “Yeah. It was...really good.” Understatement.
My body still aches from it. And the ache is sharpened by the regret, the embarrassment, the sheer hormonal confusion of someone I barely know leaving such a scorch mark on my life.
“But now I need to focus on finding a husband before Dean’s deadline in two weeks. ”
Cassandra’s face softens. “I know you’re trying to do what’s best for Tiffany, but don’t forget to look out for yourself, too. Life is too short to ignore the things that make us happy.”
“But my sister’s freedom is more important than my own happiness.”
“Fine,” Cassandra sighs. “But at the dinner, I was going to warn you that Alexander Hawthorne was back in town and at the event. I even saw you two talking. Wait… did you say his name was Alex? Dark hair, grey eyes, and a smile that could melt stone?”
“Uh, yes. Do you know him?”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Olivia, he’s Senator Hawthorne’s son. Alexander Hawthorne.”
No. No, no, no.
He cannot be.
My heart plummets. Alex—the man I spent the magical weekend with—is Alexander Hawthorne. My sister’s fiancé.
I slept with my sister’s future husband.
And the worst part? I actually liked him.
Oh god.
I might throw up.
I sit down on the edge of the receptionist’s stool.
The marble countertop is cool beneath my clammy palms, but my face is burning, burning.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m so stunned by the direction this day has taken that it takes me a moment to realize Cassandra is still talking, her voice coming from a tunnel far away.
“Hey, don’t panic,” she says. “This is great news.”
“Great news?” I choke out. “How is this great news? I’ve ruined everything.”
Cassandra grabs my arm, steadying me. “Take a deep breath, Olivia. We can figure this out.”
I feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck, the collar of my blouse suddenly too tight. My own pulse thuds in my ears. I stare holes through the marble, as if somewhere in its icy veins I might find an alternate reality where this hasn’t just happened.
“I slept with my sister’s fiancé, Cass,” I whisper. “That’s not a fixable thing. That’s a go-directly-to-hell, do-not-pass-Go thing. Tiffany will never forgive me.”
Cassandra gives me a Look, equal parts exasperation and pity.
“First of all, it’s only unfixable if you put it in those terms. Technically, Tiffany doesn’t even know him.
This could be your chance to save her from an arranged marriage she doesn’t want.
But first, we need to figure out our plan of action,” Cassandra says, pulling out her phone from her bag.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure he sees your potential.
We just need to give him a good reason to want to marry you. ”
What?
“I don’t understand.”
“Remember, Alexander is supposed to marry Tiffany,” Cassandra says slowly, as if talking to a child.
And at this moment, I feel like one. “But he’s interested in you, isn’t he?
I saw the way he looked at you on Friday, Olivia.
He likes you. And let’s be real, he’s hot.
Really hot. It could be the perfect solution to our problem. ”
My cheeks flush at the memory of his intense grey eyes on me. I do not need this reminder right now.
“Cassandra,” I say, and my voice is the sound of a paper cut, “you are talking about blowing up a legal contract between two of the most controlling families on the East Coast because I made a terrible mistake with a man I barely know?”
“Not a mistake,” she corrects, wagging a lacquered nail at me.
“A meet-cute. And it’s only a contract until someone breaks it—for good reasons.
” She cocks her head. “Look, if Alexander wants you instead of Tiffany, the Carters and Hawthorns will just renegotiate. The whole point of these arrangements is maintaining power and appearances, right? No one cares if it’s you or your sister.
They’ll adjust their little spreadsheets accordingly.
You’re not doomed, Olivia. There’s a play here if you’re brave enough to make it. ”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “And if he doesn’t want me?”
“Then you’re just back where you started, but with a great story and a few world-class orgasms.”
“You’re a terrible friend,” I mutter, but Cassandra only laughs.
“Olivia, listen to me. You are not the villain here. This is all smoke and mirrors anyway. The Hawthorns are getting what they want, Dean is getting what he wants, and Tiffany will care more about being out from under your uncle’s thumb than about who Alexander ends up with.”
I can’t even imagine looking Alexander in the face again. Not after last morning—how he woke me up with the pad of his thumb on my jaw, his hair mussed, his smile crooked. All of him, so real and present and not at all the cold, strategic Hawthorne I’d conjured up in my head.
But Cassandra is not someone you can out-stubborn. “Here’s what we’re going to do—I’ll plan everything out. You simply need to look your best, like you always do, and we’ll convince him you’re the one for him.”
She’s already texting someone, probably rifling through her contacts for ‘fixers’, ‘publicists’, and ‘discrete party planners’ as if my life is one big PR campaign. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was joking.
I don’t stop her, though. What terrifies me most is how much I want to believe her—how much I want some grown woman version of a fairy godmother to show up, wave a wand, and make the mess go away. I want to call Tiffany and confess everything, but I don’t want to shatter her trust.
Instead, I zone out staring at the cluster of magnolia blossoms someone’s set up at the entryway, and try to imagine the next steps.
I’m still processing the basic facts: I spent the weekend in Alexander Hawthorne’s bed, I loved it, and now the only logical next step is to seduce him into breaking off his own engagement to my little sister.
Or, at minimum, get him to stay interested in me long enough to steer the arranged marriage contract toward a more palatable outcome.
No pressure.